Unfinished Business
by thedragonaunt
Summary: Molly has been keeping lots of secrets and telling lots of lies but soon the truth will out! This is Part Three of my post-Reichenbach trilogy. Rated M for violence and distress. Sequel to 'Aftermath' and 'Consequences'. Stunning cover art by the incomparably talented flavialikestodraw. See her work at flavialikestodraw DOT tumblr DOT com. *BEWARE - REVIEWS CONTAIN SPOILERS*
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note: None of these wonderful characters belong to me but I love them so much I just have to write for them. Thanks to ACD, SM and MG for being geniuses. If I have borrowed their words, I can only say that 'imitation is the sincerest form of flattery'. I do this for fun, not for profit.**

**Unfinished Business**

**by**

**thedragonaunt**

**Chapter One**

Molly put on her coat, picked up her bag and walked out of the Path lab at St. Bart's hospital. She took the lift to the ground floor, then walked through the hospital 'Main Street', to the back of the building, out through the rear entrance, crossed a court yard and stopped at a gate with an entry phone key pad. She pressed the bell and waited to be admitted, looking up into the CCTV camera, to facilitate recognition. The speaker went live and a voice said,

'Hi, Miss Hooper. Come on in,' as the entry lock buzzed to release the gate.

Molly pushed the gate open, passed through and made sure it clicked shut behind her. She then walked down the paved path to the front door of the hospital crèche and let herself into the building. Once inside, she smiled and waved to the lady on reception, signed her name, in the book on the counter top, then continued through the internal security door, which had been opened for her by the receptionist, behind the glass screen. Turning left, she walked down the corridor to the door labelled 'Paddington Bear', pushed it open and walked in.

'Mummy!' cried a shrill voice and a little body hurled itself at her from the other side of the room. Molly caught her son, William, and swung him up in the air, twirling around and hugging him.

'Hi, little boy. What have you been doing today?' she asked the tousle-haired child, holding him in the crook of her arm so they were face to face. He looked at her, with liquid eyes and said, 'Cottoning.'

'Oh, really? What have you been cottoning?' she enquired. He pointed towards a table, over against the far wall. 'Dere', he said. Molly walked over towards the table, where two nursery nurses sat with three small children, all about two or three years old. The children were holding homemade cardboard cut-outs of animals, which had been punctured around the edges and had long, broad, brightly coloured boot laces attached. The children were threading the laces through the holes – in and out – all the way round the edges of the card shapes.

'Oh,' said Molly, nodding knowingly, 'you've been sewing.'

'Yet,' he son affirmed, with a solemn nod.

'Hi there, Miss Hooper. Yeah, William's been a busy boy today. He's been painting and threading and he ate all his lunch. It was lamb casserole, which is his favourite, I think.' The young woman continued, in her cheerful Australian accent, to fill Molly in on William's busy day at the nursery, whilst collecting his coat and back pack from his coat peg and packing his art work into the bag, as Molly helped him on with his coat. By the time she had completed her daily report, William was dressed for outdoors, with his back pack on, ready to leave.

'Right, well, thank you, Carly. Say 'goodbye', William. See you tomorrow. Bye,' Molly replied and, taking William's hand in hers, she walked with him, back through the building, via the pram store, just inside the front door, where she lifted him into his buggy, for the walk home. Ten minutes later, she keyed in the code to enter her building and then unlocked the front door to admit them to hers and William's flat. This had been Molly's daily routine for the last two years, ever since she returned to work from six month's maternity leave, after giving birth to William – the son of Sherlock Holmes.

She lifted William from the buggy and set him down on the tiled hall floor. She unfastened the buttons of his coat and he shrugged it off and handed it to her, then turned and went into the sitting room.

'Shoes off, babe,' Molly said and William plopped himself down on the sitting room carpet and pulled off his outdoor shoes, whilst Molly hung up their coats in the hall way and parked the buggy in the walk-in hall cupboard. She removed her own shoes and stepped into her slippers, then followed William into the sitting room. He was sitting on the sofa, with the TV remote held in both hands, pointing it at the set.

'What are you watching, sweetie?' she asked.

'CeeBeeBeeCee,' he replied and pressed the appropriate buttons to find the desired channel. Molly smiled and ruffled his hair, then went through to the kitchen, to start preparing their supper.

ooOoo

When Mycroft Holmes had first suggested this flat, she had been less than enthusiastic about the idea. Then she came to view it and she was quite over-whelmed. It constituted the entire ground floor of a detached Edwardian villa, on a leafy crescent which curved around a large public square. The flat, which was accessed off a communal hallway that also gave access to the flats above, comprised a Minton-tiled hall, with a large under stairs cupboard – ideal for storing William's buggy. It had a big sitting room, a good sized modern fitted kitchen, a generously sized master bedroom with en suite bathroom, a guest bedroom with en suite shower room and a smaller bed room – perfect for William – with a modern family bathroom right opposite. French doors gave egress from the kitchen onto a small paved patio which, in turn, opened out into a large, secure walled garden, mostly laid to lawn, with perennial boarders and, down at the bottom, two mature trees and a garden shed. Molly could never have imagined ever being able to afford such a large and well-appointed property in the centre of London and it brought home to her, quite forcibly, just what being a descendant of two of the wives of Henry VIII meant, in practical terms. It had taken a little persuasion but she had, eventually, agreed to the arrangement and now, wondered how she had ever managed all those years in her tiny, postage stamp flat on the second floor.

She had furnished the flat herself, mostly from second hand furniture shops, but she had found some very nice pieces which suited the period of the property very well.

William's uncle had also given her a very generous monthly allowance, which she had begged him to reduce, when she saw how much it was but he had stubbornly refused, so she had set up a standing order with her bank so that, on the last day of each month, any money still in her current account was transferred into a high-interest savings account. This was building up into a nice little nest egg which, she thought, might put William through University one day, without the need for a student loan. Mycroft had become a regular visitor to the flat, coming over at least once a week to see William, and he and Molly had developed a comfortable friendship. He was, actually, quite good company and had a very dry sense of humour and a sharp wit, which Molly appreciated. She was sure that the other residents thought she was Mycroft's mistress, which she found quite hilarious but, when she mentioned this to him, he seemed rather put out. However, he soon saw the funny side and quite appreciated irony.

Busying herself, preparing their evening meal, Molly reflected on how much her life had changed in the last three and a bit years. Yes, it was almost exactly three years and three months since Sherlock had gone away. During that time, she had heard nothing of him. She knew that Mycroft had limited contact with his brother but he never told her anything about where Sherlock was or what he was doing. She could only imagine that Sherlock was still alive or otherwise, surely, Mycroft would have told her? It was whilst these thoughts ran through her head that she heard the entry phone buzz. She walked back through the sitting room, past William, still intent on his children's TV show, and pressed the answer button on the entry phone. The image which appeared in the viewing screen was instantly recognisable as Sherlock's brother. Molly pressed the lock release button and, at the same time, called to her son,

'William, Uncle Mycroft's here.'

As she watched the image of Mycroft step forward and out of sight of the camera, she opened the front door to admit him.

'Good evening, Molly,' he smiled and gave her a peck on each cheek, at which point, William raced into the hallway and threw himself at Mycroft, shouting.

'Mytoff! Mytoff! Come-see!'

'Oh, William, hello!' Mycroft responded, completely disarmed by William's enthusiastic welcome. He allowed the little boy to grab his hand and drag him into the sitting room, to sit on the sofa, as William pointed at the image on the TV screen, prattling away in a strange patua which, fortunately, contained enough recognisable English words to convey some sense. Whilst responding to William's rapid chattering with appropriate responses, Mycroft removed his brogues and placed them, out of the way, to the side of the sofa.

Molly boiled the kettle and made a pot of tea for herself and her guest. Mycroft did not mind tea bag tea, so long as it was made in a pot. She carried the tea tray into the sitting room and poured two cups, handing one to him. Taking one herself, she sat down in the arm chair. She watched with amusement as her son explained the finer points of the action, depicted on the television, to his uncle, who listened with rapt attention. It was a nature programme, about deadly animals, apparently. The presenter was admiring a particularly fearsome looking spider and explaining, in graphic detail, how it caught and ate birds. Molly was not sure how much of the commentary William actually understood but he was certainly showing a great deal of interest in the images. She could not help but compare him to his father, who also had such an enquiring mind, but she wondered whether Sherlock would have thought the spider's feeding habits worthy of storage space in his 'hard drive'. The programme ended and William was not interested in the one that followed, so he turned off the TV and, taking Mycroft again by the hand, insisted that he accompany him to his room, to participate in some Lego building. As Mycroft was dragged away, Molly asked if he would like to stay for supper. This agreed, she went back into the kitchen and left them to their game.

They ate a companionable supper at the kitchen table and then Molly took William for his bath, whilst Mycroft made and took some phone calls on his mobile. When William was dried and dressed for bed, she carried him into his room and let him choose a story book before she tucked him into bed. He chose his current favourite – 'Where the Wild Things Are' – and Molly read it to him. When the story was finished, they went back over the book to talk about the salient features in the pictures. Then it was time for William to go to sleep. Molly took the large framed photograph from the top of William's chest of drawers and showed it to the little boy.

'Say 'night-night' to Daddy, Will,' Molly said softly. William pressed his little Cupid's bow mouth to the photograph of Sherlock, which Molly had obtained from the London Evening Standard photo archive, specifically for this purpose. She wanted William to know who his father was and what he looked like. She had spent a great deal of time, searching through all the press photos of Sherlock in the archive, until she found this one. It was a head shot, taken outside the home of the banker he had helped to rescue from kidnappers. He was looking off into the distance, his hair lifted by the breeze, his lips slightly parted. He looked beautiful.

'Nigh-nigh, daddy,' William said.

The nightly ritual completed, Molly kissed William, covered him over with his duvet and left the room, pulling the door to behind her.

Mycroft was sitting on the sofa, looking pensive. He usually left, once William was put to bed, but he didn't look as though he was going anywhere, on this occasion.

'Everything alright?' Molly asked.

'I have something to tell you,' he replied, looking up with a serious expression. Molly felt the blood drain from her face and she put her hand to her mouth, thinking the unthinkable. Mycroft jumped up and caught her by her upper arms.

'No, no, Molly! It's not that! It's not bad news at all….' he said, urgently. Molly dropped into the arm chair and put her hand on her forehead, breathing heavily, trying to regain her composure. Mycroft went into the kitchen and returned a few minutes later with two generous glasses of red wine. He placed one in Molly's still trembling hand and sat on the sofa with his own. Molly looked at him with trepidation.

'Sherlock is coming back,' he said, and took a large swig of his wine.

ooOoo


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

Molly lay in bed that night, unable to sleep, going over in her head what she and Mycroft had discussed. The last of Moriarty's lieutenants had been 'neutralised', one way or another, and his vast organisation dismantled. The calls Mycroft took that evening had confirmed this. So there was no longer a barrier to Sherlock returning. It was just a matter of making the necessary arrangements. Mycroft calculated that Sherlock could be arriving back in the UK as early as the following Tuesday – in just six days' time. Molly was anxious that Sherlock be told about his son as soon as possible and she felt she should be the person to tell him.

'I need to meet with him, as soon as he gets back, 'she insisted.

It was agreed that, by which ever means Sherlock returned – air, sea or rail – Molly would meet him at the port of entry and they would be given a private place to talk. After Mycroft left, Molly went to her bedroom and opened the safe in the bottom of the heavy oak wardrobe, taking out a plain buff jiffy bag. She took from the bag a memory stick, fitted it into her lap top and brought up the array of folders. She then opened each folder, one at a time and looked at the contents. The first folder was labelled 'Before'. In this were all the photos Maria had taken of her during her pregnancy, the videos of her two scans and a still of each of the scan images, showing the developing foetus, in-utero. The second folder was labelled 'During'. This contained the video of her labour and William's birth and photos of him lying on her chest, immediately after the birth. The third was labelled 'After'. It contained photos of her with William, taken in the Mother and Baby Unit, feeding him, playing with him, cuddling him. The next folder was labelled 'William's First Year'. It was full of stills and videos of all the landmark moments of her son's first year of life – first smile, first tooth, rolling over, sitting unsupported, pulling himself to standing, his first faltering steps and so on and so on. Molly scrolled through this record of her son's life, on to 'William's Second Year' and then the latest edition, 'William's Third Year'. This one was only half complete. She had created this biography for one reason only – to give it to Sherlock, on his return, so that he could share in every moment of his son's life. She closed all the documents, removed the memory stick and pressed it to her lips. Then she put it back in the jiffy bag and returned it to the safe, until next Tuesday.

As Molly lay in bed, she tried to picture in her head how their first meeting might go but every scenario seemed to end with Sherlock storming out. In the end, she gave up trying to second guess the situation. She would just have to play it by ear. When the call came from Mycroft, two days later, Molly was both excited and apprehensive to learn that Sherlock would be arriving at Heathrow at eight-thirty in the morning, the following Wednesday. In just a few short days, she would see him again.

ooOoo

Molly sat in a private Arrivals lounge, in Terminal 5, at Heathrow airport, dressed in a beige wool suit and tan court shoes. She wore a plain Alice band, which held her hair off her face but let it fall over her shoulders. She had applied her make up with extra care – the red badge of courage. She wanted to look her best for him. She rose and walked over to the glass wall, which offered a panoramic view of the air field. In the grey light of early morning, there were many flashing lights on moving airport vehicles, weaving in and out, amongst the aeroplanes, servicing their needs. As she stood, looking out, she heard the door open. She took a deep breath and turned around.

The person walking toward her, across the plain grey carpet was so familiar and yet so different. His hair was cut short at the back and sides and brushed back off his forehead. He wore his black overcoat but it looked scuffed and worn and it hung a little loosely from his frame. His face was thinner, making his cheek bones even more prominent. He wore dark glasses.

'Mycroft too busy running the country to come himself, was he?' His voice was the same rich baritone but it had a hard edge to it. She stepped forward to meet him in the middle of the room, and he stopped, suddenly, removing his dark glasses.

'My God… Molly, I …..I didn't recognise you!' He was taken aback. Standing with the daylight behind her, he had only seen her in silhouette, and he had assumed she was one of his brother's minions, like the man who had met him off the plane and brought him to this room.

'Welcome home, Sherlock,' Molly said. She reached out to hug him but saw his body stiffen and his head jerk back, in an involuntary reflex. Instead of the hug she so wanted to give, she squeezed his arm and then stepped back out of his personal space. Three years of deep cover, alone and isolated, facing untold dangers, had taken its toll. This man was damaged. They stood looking at one another for an awkward moment, and then Molly indicated the seating area, inviting him to sit down, and sitting herself.

'I asked Mycroft if I could meet you from the plane. He wanted to come himself but he let me come instead.' She paused. Sherlock seemed to consider this information, then gave a slight shrug, took off his coat, laid it over the backrest and sat opposite her.

'You look different, Molly. You've….changed.' He was scrutinizing her, scanning her, taking in all the little micro features and analysing them, as he did when meeting someone for the first time. She smiled, looking down, feeling a little flustered, like in the old days, when he commented on her appearance.

'I asked them to bring some tea, when you arrived. It should be here in a minute.' As if on cue, the door opened and a young woman in cabin crew uniform came in with a tea tray. She placed it on the coffee table between them, smiled and then left, without a word. Molly set about serving the tea.

'So, are you here to debrief me?' he asked, with a wry smile.

'To bring you up to speed, I think would be more accurate,' she replied.

'Ok, so what's everyone been up to while I've been away?' He sipped his tea and looked at her over the rim of his cup. 'How's John?'

'John's really good. He's gone back into practice, doing A and E at St. Mary's and making quite a name for himself as a trauma specialist. I think it really suits him. Reminds him of Afghanistan, I expect.' She hesitated momentarily before going on.

'He met someone, too. She's called Mary and she's a solicitor or a barrister maybe. Something in the law, anyway. She's nice. They…er…they got married, just over a year ago.' She glanced at his eyes, to try to gauge how he was taking this news but his face was an inscrutable mask. He nodded and then said,

'That's good. That's what he wanted, to meet someone and settle down. Good for him.' He made a brave attempt at a smile but it didn't quite reach his eyes.

'What about Lestrade?' he asked.

'Ah, kind of the opposite, really. He was suspended for three months after, well, after you were arrested and escaped and all that. But once it was proven that all the crap Kitty Riley wrote was cooked up by Moriarty and that you were innocent after all, he was reinstated. And he got divorced, this time last year.'

'About time, too. That wife of his couldn't be faithful if her life depended on it. I'm glad he finally saw sense.' Sherlock surprised Molly with the vehemence with which he spoke. He seemed aggrieved on his friend's behalf. Could it be that he had discovered empathy?

'Mrs Hudson?'

'Oh, she's absolutely fine. I see her quite often. She comes to stay over-night, now and then, or I go and see her or we just meet for coffee.' Molly carefully avoided expanding on the real reason for Mrs Hudson's over-night stays – as William's baby-sitter. That would come soon enough.

'Sherlock, about John and Greg and Mrs H, I've seen quite a lot of them whilst you've been away and I've told them a lot of lies over the years. When they find out you're alive, they'll know I've lied to them.' She paused, momentarily, to think about what she was about to say. He pursed his lips and looked down at the floor.

'I'm so sorry, Molly. I should never have involved you and then left you to cope with all the fall out,' he sighed.

'No, Sherlock, please don't be sorry. I've done it willingly. I would do anything to keep you and them safe. I don't regret any of it. It had to be done. But, since I told the most lies, I would like to be the one to tell them the truth. Please, let me do this.' She looked at him, beseechingly.

Sherlock was taken by surprise. The thing he had been dreading most about coming back was having to face the friends that he had duped, and admit to the deception. Yet here was Molly, actually volunteering to take on this onerous task. He did not know what to say. She went on,

'I think it would be best if I get them all together and tell them at the same time. It will be easier, only having to say it once, and I think it will be better for them, too, having each other there for support.'

He was struck by the simple logic of her plan. He could not see any flaws.

'Do you really want to do this?' he asked.

'Oh, I have to,' she replied, emphatically.

'Tell Mrs Hudson first,' he declared, endorsing the plan. 'She will understand and she'll help you. You'll need back up, in case things get out of hand. I'm thinking about John. He can be a bit irrational. She will know how to handle him. She's tougher than you think.'

Molly smiled. This was the old Sherlock, cutting straight to the heart of the matter and not bothering with the conventional niceties. And he was right about Mrs Hudson, who would be an invaluable ally in the difficult task ahead. She picked up the tea pot and offered him more tea.

'You are looking really well, Molly,' he said, as he accepted the refill from her.

'What has happened to you?' he asked, a little mystified wrinkle appearing between his eyebrows.

'I was thinking you might be able to tell me that. You've been scanning me ever since you got here.' She smiled, teasingly. 'What can you see, Sherlock? I'm sure you haven't lost your touch.'

He put down his cup and gazed at her, intently.

'You're self-assured, confident. Something has happened to give you a much stronger sense of your own worth. You look happy, fulfilled, in control of your own destiny.' She felt a shudder run through her, at the intensity of his gaze and the devastating accuracy of his assessment but then he looked down at his tea and she breathed again.

'Will that do for starters?' he asked, picking up his cup and taking a sip.

'Tell me though, Molly, what has happened to you to bring about this….. transformation?'

She could not put it off any longer. Looking into his eyes, she said,

'I had a baby.'

He stared at her, unmoving, not even blinking, as his brain tried to process this information, as all the synapses fired, as the neurones configured and reconfigured and he made the logical deduction.

'What sex?' His voice sounded hollow, almost disembodied.

She reached into her hand bag and took out a Boots photo envelope.

'He's a boy', she answered, holding out the envelope for him to take. 'His name is William.'

Sherlock took the proffered envelope and she saw that his hands shook as he opened it and slid out the photo print, turning it over to look at the image.

'It's very recent. I took it the day before yesterday,' she explained.

He stared at the image of the small boy with dark wavy hair and piercing eyes. His free hand went involuntarily to his brow, as he recognised his own features in this other human being. This child was the very image of him.

Molly began to talk rather fast.

'I hope you understand why I didn't let Mycroft tell you about him. I wanted to tell you but I knew it could put you in danger. I couldn't risk that. He's so like you, Sherlock. He's really clever; smart beyond his years. He thinks about things. He works things out. And he is beautiful.'

Sherlock was still sitting very still, staring at the face of his son.

Molly went on.

'I understand that this must be a big shock, especially after what you've been through but I needed to tell you before you found out some other way. I hope you understand.' She was beginning to panic. This was not going well. She reached inside her hand bag again and took out the jiffy, reached across and offered it to him. He took it, automatically, and held it in his hand without looking at it. She stood up and said,

'It's all in there. Look at it, Sherlock. Take as long as you need.' She rose and stepped across to him, put her hand on his shoulder, leaned down and kissed him gently on the cheek, then picked up her coat and bag. He had not moved.

'I want you to know that I make no demands and I have no expectations but I would love for you be a part of your son's life, for him and for you,' she concluded, with a quick nod, then turned and walked out of the room.

ooOoo

Sherlock sat, for a long time, not moving, except for his eyes, which followed his thoughts around as they tried to organise themselves inside his head. Then he seemed to come out of his trance. He opened the bag, looked inside and took out the memory stick. He got up and went to the door. When he opened it, the man standing outside said,

'Are you ready to go, sir?'

'No,' he snapped. 'Bring me my laptop. And more tea.' He shut the door and walked over to the window where he stood looking out but seeing nothing until the door opened again and the tea and the lap top were delivered. He indicated for them to be put on the coffee table then waved the bearers away.

'I don't want to be disturbed,' he said, curtly. He sat down, booted up the laptop, plugged in the memory stick and began to scroll through the contents.

Molly hurried through the airport, oblivious to the many travellers and airport staff milling around in the huge concourse. She found the exit, and broke through the door into fresh air, then leaned against a barrier, gasping for breath. As she stood, trying to regain some semblance of composure, a black shape eased alongside her and the chauffeur who had brought her here jumped out of the car and came round to open the rear passenger door. She slipped inside, gratefully, and leaned her head back against the leather upholstery. She was full of apprehension and dread. What had she done? Had she been too abrupt? Could she have broken the news more gently? Would he ever forgive her?

Four hours later, Sherlock opened the door to the airport lounge and said to the man, still standing outside,

'Take me to my brother.'

ooOoo


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

Molly spent the next two days in torment. She heard nothing from Sherlock or Mycroft so could neither confirm nor deny that she had handled the whole disclosure thing very badly in deed. She went over the encounter again and again in her head, trying to see where she went wrong, trying to discern the point at which she blew it. Waves of nausea crashed over her every time she thought about it – which was all the time. It was like being pregnant again. On the Friday evening, with William asleep in his bed, she lay on the sofa in her sitting room, nursing a glass of red wine, wishing the phone would ring but dreading what news it might bring. As if in answer to her prayer, her mobile rang out. It was the 'Spitfire Prelude and Fugue', her signature tune for Mycroft on her phone. She pressed the button and held it to her ear.

'Hello, Mycroft. Ok, break it to me gently. How much does he hate me?' she blurted out. There was a long pause then a voice that was definitely not Mycroft's said,

'Why would I hate you?'

'Oh, God, Sherlock, it's you.' She couldn't think of anything else to say so there was another long silence. He broke it again.

'Molly, please can I come and see you?'

'Of course,' she said. 'When?'

'Now. I'm just round the corner.' He shut off the connection.

Molly was in a panic, then. She jumped up, nearly spilling her wine, and looked round in alarm, unsure exactly what she was looking for. Then the entry phone buzzed. She rushed to her front door and saw Sherlock's face on the screen. She pressed the lock release on the outer door and opened the internal door to let him in. Sherlock walked through to the sitting room and stood looking round.

'Bit more up-market than your last place,' he quipped. She looked at the floor.

'Mycroft has been very kind,' she replied, feeling embarrassed, recalling – ironically – her mother's comments about girls getting pregnant and expecting flats and money. She had not made this connection before. Sherlock was oblivious, as ever, to the effect his words were having. He removed his coat and she took it from him into the hall to hang it up, taking time to remind herself that he did not mean to be hurtful. Returning to the sitting room, she asked him if he would like a drink. He picked up her wine glass, from the coffee table, swirled it around, inhaling the bouquet and replied that one of those would be fine. Molly invited him to sit down and went to pour him a drink.

Both settled in their seats, Molly sipped her wine, replaced her glass on the table and waited for him to open the batting. He organised his thoughts and then began.

'Molly, I have never considered the notion of being a father. It just has not even registered on my radar which is why when you told me about the baby, I couldn't even process the information. I apologise for my reaction. I understand it must have hurt you a great deal.' She looked at her hands and tried not to give even a hint of how true this was. He went on.

'I don't know what sort of a father I would make. I don't have any appropriate role models to even begin to make a comparison. If truth be told, I'm not really father material. And you have done such a brilliant job so far of bringing up our son' (she almost gasped at hearing him say those words 'our son') 'that I am really not sure what useful contribution I could even bring to the table. I'm selfish, arrogant, demanding, obsessive, perseverant, none of which are traits one would look for in a parent. I'm not a nice person, not good to be around. When I'm on a case, you know what I'm like, I get completely OCD and everything else goes out of the window.'

She registered that all too familiar tightening of the band around her chest as she anticipated the rejection that his next words would deliver. She felt the tears begin to sting her eyes and a sob start to rise from her diaphragm. She fought hard to control herself, to suppress these feelings before they overcame her. He was talking again.

'But, Molly, I do want to try.' He looked across at her and she saw the uncertainty in his eyes and could contain herself no longer. The tears overflowed, the sob erupted and she sat and shook for the longest time. He was paralysed by his own confusion so was slow in responding but eventually reached out and took her hand.

'You are the bravest person I know, Molly Hooper. I owe you so much. I can never repay you.'

She gripped his hand tight and scrubbed the tears from her face, taking some deep breaths.

'You don't owe me anything, Sherlock. You've given me the most precious thing I could ever have. You gave me William.' She managed a feeble smile, squeezed his hand then picked up her wine and took a big gulp. 'Would you like to see him?'

The fear and trepidation was there again but he swallowed and nodded his head. She stood and gestured for him to follow, leading him down the corridor, off the sitting room, stopping at the third door. She turned to him and held a finger to her lips then gently pushed open the door. The light from the corridor cast a weak illumination on the small mound in the bed. He stepped through the doorway, walked into the room and stopped by the side of the bed, looking down at the sleeping form. His hands went up to his face and he stood, transfixed. Molly had followed him in but stood to one side so as not to intrude on his moment. After an age, he turned toward her and whispered,

'Can I touch him?'

She nodded, but stepped forward, in case William woke up and was startled by his presence. Sherlock went down on one knee and reached out his hand, tentatively, touching his son's head with the very tips of his fingers. He pushed a thick curl of hair back off William's forehead and stroked his hand over the child's scalp. At this, William stirred. He turned his head toward his father's hand, stretched his arms and moved his legs under the duvet, and then his eyes flickered open. Sherlock froze, feeling suddenly exposed, like he'd been caught in some nefarious deed, but William just rolled over, away from the light and settled back into his dream. Sherlock breathed again. He stood, leaned over and dropped a gentle kiss on the top of his son's head, then turned and slipped out of the room. Molly followed, closing the door behind them.

Back in the sitting room, Sherlock was feeling a little shaken. He had, after all, just been confronted with his own immortality, his own posterity. He coped with this in the only way he knew. He demanded data. They drank wine and talked into the night. Sherlock wanted to know every detail of how Molly was managing as a single mother. Molly talked warmly about all the support Mycroft had given. She described the day he came to the hospital and discovered his inner uncle; when she came to the part about putting William's name down for a school, Sherlock just rolled his eyes. He acknowledged that Mycroft really was into that 'old school tie' stuff but that he could not care less. He had not been particularly happy at Harrow but he would not have been happy anywhere. That was just who he was.

Molly told him about Maria and her part in the whole project that was 'Molly's Pregnancy' and about the 'A.I' subterfuge. Sherlock was in awe of the way Molly had coped with the labour itself, explaining that he had been moved to tears, watching the video. He thanked her for documenting William's life. He was thrilled about her choice of god-parents and impressed with her manipulation of the gestation time, to allay John's suspicions.

They talked about how and when he would like to reveal himself to his other friends and they agreed that Molly should invite them all to 221B Baker Street for the dénouement, the next Saturday, after letting Mrs Hudson in on the secret and enlisting her support. He explained he would be kept busy for the next week, being debriefed by his brother's minions – essential after such an extended period in deep cover, - to make sure he was safe to let out on the streets, again, so he wouldn't be accessible. But if she needed to contact him urgently, she should do it through Mycroft. He added that he had already under-gone two days of interrogation and was supposed to be under 'house arrest', at the family home, for the duration but that he had managed to outwit the Secret Service guys who were guarding him and escape, to come and see her. No change there, then, she thought.

Then Sherlock looked at his watch and said he should be going. It was very late and he was aware that William was probably an early riser.

'You can stay, if you like,' said Molly. 'We have a guest room,' she added.

'Better not,' he replied. 'I have Mycroft's phone. He's probably suffering withdrawal symptoms, even as we speak.'

'I expect he's traced you and has the building surrounded,' she giggled.

He paused and then said,

'Once this debrief is over and everyone who matters knows I'm not dead after all, then I'd like to meet William properly. I can't really do it before,'

He got up, collected his coat and stopped at the door. Turning round, he gave her a warm hug.

'Thank you, Molly Hooper, for everything,' he said, kissed her on the top of her head and left. She watched him, in the security monitor as he went out through the front door and was met by a 'Mycroft Man' and escorted to a waiting car. At least he did not have to look for a cab.

As Molly got ready for bed, she reflected on the evening's developments. She was amazed by the ease with which they had conversed and realised that this was, in fact, the first proper conversation they had ever had. The dynamic between them had changed. She recognised what the difference was. She was no longer in awe of him and he had a new-found respect for her. Now, they were equals.

ooOoo


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

On the following Tuesday afternoon, Molly took the Metropolitan Line to Baker Street tube station and walked along to number 221. She rang the bell for 221A and waited as Mrs Hudson made her way to the door. The two women greeted one another with hugs and pecks on the cheek, then Mrs H led the way through the hall to her own front door, towards the rear of the house. As Molly passed the stairs that led up to 221B, she glanced upwards, as she always did, and felt the palpable emptiness of the flat above. It was as though it were haunted by a very powerful ghost. Molly sat at the table in Mrs Hudson's kitchen, whilst the older lady put on the kettle and made tea.

'Where's little William, then?' she asked.

'Oh, he's at the nursery. I took him there this morning, as usual. He likes his routines, doesn't take kindly to sudden changes of plan, and I was working this morning so it seemed the sensible thing to do. And it gives us more chance to talk. I need to tell you something and to ask you a huge favour,' Molly looked at her companion.

'Right then,' said the hostess, 'better get this tea on and then you can tell me what's what.'

When the tea pot was on the trivet in the middle of the table and the two friends had a steaming cup each, Molly saw it was time to spill the beans.

'Mrs Hudson, I have to tell you that Sherlock is not dead.' She looked at the lady opposite and waited for her to react.

'I thought not,' she stated bluntly. She saw she had surprised Molly. 'I did believe it at first, even when Mycroft told me to leave all Sherlock's things in the flat. I just thought he couldn't cope with dealing with them straight away – too painful, you know. Then when it went on and he was still paying the rent, I started to wonder. But it was when you told us about Sherlock being William's dad, that's when the penny dropt,' she said.

'But how?' asked Molly.

'When John and Mary were bringing me back home, John told us what you had said about William being two weeks late. Now I know John is a doctor and everything but he's not had much to do with babies so he probably didn't think anything of it. But I've seen babies who've been born two weeks late and they look terrible. They look like they've been in the bath too long. Their skin is all wrinkly and it flakes off and, quite often, their hair falls out, too. It grows back, of course. Believe me, they don't look all smooth and bonny like little William did, so I knew that something wasn't right.' She concluded her explanation and sat back, giving Molly a knowing look. Molly was impressed.

'So from that you worked out that Sherlock was not dead?' Molly smiled, shaking her head in wonder.

'Well, I knew that, if he was dead he hadn't died when we thought he did, the day he jumped off the hospital roof. But then time went by and Mycroft kept coming over, now and again, so one day I asked him if he would like me to sort out Sherlock's things and he was adamant that everything stay as it was. After a year of this, I knew that the only possible reason could be that Sherlock would, one day, be coming back. So, that's when I started taking proper care of the flat. I lit the fire on cold days, changed the bed linen every week, made sure there was always fresh milk in the fridge and bread in the bread bin, kept it nice and clean.'

'Did Mycroft know you were doing this?' Molly asked.

'Oh, yes, I'm sure he noticed but he never said a word.'

'So do you think he knows that you know Sherlock is alive?

'I'm sure he does but he knows I would never say anything. You see, if Sherlock wanted people to think he was dead, he must have had a good reason and that's good enough for me,' she concluded.

Mrs Hudson, you are amazing! You worked all that out!' Molly was in awe.

'Look, dear, you know they say that people start to look like their dogs? Well, I suppose if you hang around Sherlock Holmes for long enough, some of him rubs off on you, do you know what I mean?'

'I think I do,' said Molly with a smile.

'Alright, then, that's the explanations over with. Now, what's this huge favour you want to ask me?' said Mrs H.

'I have to tell John and Greg Lestrade that Sherlock is alive and that he's back. I would really appreciate your help with this.'

Mrs Hudson pursed her lips, as she gave this due consideration, then put her hands flat on the table and pushed herself up from her chair.

'Right,' she said, 'I'd better put the kettle back on. This is definitely a two pot problem!'

ooOoo

With the second pot of tea steeping on the trivet and the biscuit tin open between the two women, they got down to business. Molly explained her idea of gathering them all at 221B. Mrs Hudson looked a little dubious.

'That might be difficult,' she said. 'You know, when Sherlock jumped, John took it very bad. I've never seen a man take on so. He blamed himself, you see. He blamed himself for leaving him alone, when he thought I was hurt and then for not being able to talk him down, when he was up on the roof. I used to hear him, upstairs in the night; breaking his heart, he was. And I couldn't go up to him. I mean, a man has got his pride, hasn't he? He don't want a woman seeing him in that state. No, he does not. So, to be honest, I was grateful when he moved out, cause I couldn't bear to listen to him and not be able to do anything about it. He has not been back inside this house since the day he left. I don't think you'll be able to persuade him to come back in, not even in my flat. You definitely won't get him to go upstairs.'

Molly hadn't even considered this point. She had thought she had the perfect race plan but now the horse had fallen at the first hurdle. She mulled the thought over in her head for a moment or two then asked Mrs Hudson if she had any ideas.

'We need somewhere private but neutral. Also, we need to be prepared for John to bolt. He is the bolting sort. Whenever him and Sherlock used to have arguments – and, believe me, they had more than a few – John would always walk out. It was his safety valve, which was lucky, really, cause otherwise I think they would have come to blows! Any way, he would go out and have a walk around, Sherlock would sulk for a while and then get into some experiment or other so that, by the time John come back, the whole thing was forgotten and they'd be fine and dandy again.'

Molly was intrigued by this rare insight into the relationship shared by these two men. She could see that Mrs Hudson was quite right in her analysis of the situation but what would constitute a private but neutral venue with minimal opportunity to bolt, for the meeting?

'What do you mean by neutral?' Molly asked.

'Well, this meeting is going to be very hard for John, very upsetting. He will probably associate it with the place where it happened for ever so he probably won't ever want to go there again. So it needs to be somewhere he is unlikely to go to again, anyway.' Molly was astonished at the depth of understanding of the workings of John's mind evidenced by Mrs Hudson. Sherlock had been so right about her. There was much more to Mrs H than met the eye.

Between them, the two women worked out the 'how', the 'who' and the 'when' of the general plan for the big reveal but, no matter how they wracked their brains, they could not come up with a venue to fit the bill; the 'where' would have to wait until inspiration struck. However, they were both satisfied with their afternoon's work and celebrated with a small sherry. Then it was time for Molly to leave to collect William from the crèche.

ooOoo

Later the same evening, Molly was in the kitchen, preparing supper, as usual, when her mobile rang out with Mycroft's theme. She picked up the phone and asked,

'Which one of you is it this time?'

'Not the kleptomaniac escapologist,' Mycroft's voice remarked, dryly. 'Hello, Molly. I was wondering whether it might be convenient for me to call on you and William.'

'When have you ever needed permission to come and see us before?' Molly asked.

'Well, circumstances have altered now, have they not,' he replied.

'Mycroft, just because Sherlock is back does not change the fact that you are William's uncle. I wondered why we hadn't seen you for more than a week. William's been asking where you are. Get your sorry arse over here, Mycroft Holmes!' she concluded and shut off the phone. Within minutes, the entry phone sounded and she buzzed Mycroft in. He came into the sitting room and was set upon by William. He swung the little chap up into the air and plopped him onto his shoulders, proceeding then to canter around the sitting room and kitchen, to the accompaniment of squeals of delight from his favourite – in deed his only – nephew. Later, after supper and bath time, William insisted that 'Uncle Mytoff' read the bedtime story and he chose 'Whistle for Willy', because he loved the way Mycroft did all the funny accents.

Once William was settled for the night, Mycroft came back through to the sitting room and was handed a large glass of Merlot by Molly.

'That's your reward for services above and beyond,' she informed him. 'I'm really glad you've come this evening, actually. I need your advice.'

He indicated that he was all ears so Molly related the details of the conversation she had had with Mrs Hudson that afternoon

'So the problem I have is where could this meeting take place? Any ideas would be really appreciated.'

Mycroft sipped his wine whilst mulling over the problem then, with a slight shrug declared,

'Well, it will have to be at the Holmes house, in Hertfordshire.' Molly looked a little puzzled.

'It fits all the criteria: it's secure – very secure – being set in several hundred acres of parkland. If John 'bolts', as Mrs Hudson so aptly puts it, he can't go far and we will be able to keep tabs on him; it's private, of course; and it's neutral – John need never set foot in there again. Perfect. Now, when were you thinking of holding this gathering?' Molly should not have been so astounded at how quickly Mycroft had assimilated all the facts and come up with the perfect solution. After all, isn't that what he did best?

'I was thinking this Saturday. Sherlock will have finished his debriefing so he could even, perhaps, be the surprise guest, once everyone has been brought up to speed,' she suggested. To her disappointment, Mycroft did not seem so optimistic.

'I would not bank on Sherlock having completed his debriefing by Saturday,' he warned. 'Being in 'deep cover' is the most intense form of combat. One must completely subvert one's personality, adopt another persona and inhabit it so completely that one comes to be that person, rather like a form of voluntary schizophrenia. It is not an easy task to divest one's mind of such a second self but it is essential to utterly expunge the alter ego. Otherwise, it might reappear when one is least expecting it – often with devastating consequences.' Mycroft looked at Molly and saw the concern in her face. He reached for her hand and squeezed it. 'Sherlock knew the risks when he undertook this mission. He knew that Moriarty's network must be completely destroyed if his friends were ever to be truly safe again and he knew he was the best man for the job. But he is also fully committed to this process. He has surprised me at the level of co-operation he has shown. I don't count his disappearing act the other night. I fully understand why he had to come and see you. It was necessary. He knew that he couldn't gain any benefit from the debriefing when he had this other matter taking his attention from the task in hand. He was much more accessible after he spoke to you.' Mycroft paused for thought and then went on. 'In many ways, it would be better if he didn't just jump out of a cupboard, right after the dénouement. I think that John, in particular, will need time to come to terms with the revelations, don't you?'

Molly felt so stupid. She had learned so much in the last few minutes that had never crossed her mind before. How could she have imagined that it would all be so easy? The term 'debriefing' sounded so innocuous. She shuddered at the very thought of the terrible ordeal which Sherlock was currently undergoing. Would this nightmare ever end? She rubbed her hand across her forehead and sighed deeply.

'Don't punish yourself, Molly,' Mycroft scolded gently. 'This sort of situation is far beyond the scope of most people's experience – and thank goodness it is. The reason why people like myself and my brother do the things we do is so that other people don't have to even think about them. It's called the natural order.'

Molly gave him a weak smile. She often marvelled at the way her opinion of Mycroft had changed so radically once she really came to know him. He was actually a very thoughtful and caring man but he could switch those feelings off when necessary and be as cold and ruthless as the task demanded. She was very glad he was now her friend.

'Right,' Mycroft declared, 'back to the business in hand. I will summon both John and Lestrade to my house on Saturday afternoon. I will not give a reason, so they are far more likely to come – out of a sheer sense of intrigue. And, once they are there, you and Mrs Hudson will carry out your mission and we will take it as it comes. If it means having to send the dogs out after John, so be it. And, whilst you are attending to your task, I rather hope that you will accept my offer to mind young William.'

'I'm sure William will be very happy with that arrangement,' Molly laughed.

ooOoo


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five **

John rolled out of bed, pulled on his dressing gown and padded through from the bedroom to the bathroom. He used the toilet and then, whilst washing his hands, scrutinised his five o'clock shadow in the bathroom mirror. He glanced at his watch and was amused to see that it was, indeed, five o'clock. He was on night shifts this week, rolling home in the cold light of dawn, finding Mary up and about, dressed in her smart, black, court room suit, grabbing a quick hug and a kiss as she left for work. By the time she got home, he would – in all probability – be gone off to work already so that would be all they would see of one another, on such a day. But the advantage of pulling nights was that one only had to work four nights out of seven, which meant he would be off duty for the weekend, this week.

He loved his weekends off with Mary, especially Sundays. They would wake at their leisure, often start the day with a good romp between the sheets and then go out for breakfast to the little 'skanky caff', as he liked to call it – which was not skanky at all, actually, but clean, cheap, very cheerful and served all-day breakfasts, even on a Sunday. Later, they would take a walk in one of the Royal parks or on the Heath, stop in a pub for a pint on the way home and then curl up in front of the telly for the evening. He could not think of a better way to spend his Sundays or a better person to spend them with. Meeting Mary really had been the best thing that ever happened to him.

It was at this point in his reveries that Sherlock usually jumped out on his thoughts and gave him a metaphorical punch in the gut; it was at this point that his inner voice reminded him that Mary was only the second best thing that ever happened to him – albeit a very close second – but nothing and no one would ever top what he had had with Sherlock Holmes. They really had been two halves of the same whole, each of them rather cast adrift until they were brought together by that chance meeting with John's old friend from student days, Stamford. The three years that he had spent chasing criminals round London with Sherlock had truly been the most exciting, fulfilling, challenging, fun, amusing, insane….the adjectives could go on for ever, he thought to himself. And even now, three years on, there was not a single day that he did not miss his friend so badly that it was a physical pain in the core of his being. These thoughts flashed through his mind in an instant, as he walked to the kitchen to make some breakfast, which was actually supper, as it was almost evening.

There was post on the kitchen table, left by Mary, this morning. He shuffled the envelopes like a pack of cards. They were bills mostly, or rather 'for your information only' letters, since they paid all their utilities by monthly direct debit, but one of them wasn't a bill. It was a plain manila envelope, addressed in a neat copperplate hand. It was Mycroft Homles' hand writing. Feeling curious as to why Mycroft should be writing to him, he opened the letter and took out the hand written note from inside. It read,

'Dear John

I would very much like for you to attend a meeting at my home in Hertfordshire on Saturday next at two o'clock in the afternoon. I believe that it would be greatly to your advantage if you were to accept this invitation.

I look forward to your company at the appointed time.

Kind regards

Mycroft Holmes'

John stared at the letter for a number of minutes and reread it several times. What on earth was Mycroft up to, he wondered. Did he have plans for Saturday? No, nothing specific. Was Mary included in the invitation? No, it would appear not. How rude! But, hey, this is Mycroft bloody Holmes we're talking about so, what's new? He put the letter back in the envelope and left it on the table. He had to get ready for work now or he would be late, which he could not be. As he showered, shaved and dressed, he wracked his brains to try and think of a reason why his presence might be required at Holmes Mansions, or whatever the family seat was called, but he repeatedly drew a blank. Suddenly, he could not wait for Saturday, to find out what this was all about.

Unbeknown to John, Greg Lestrade was having almost the identical conversation with himself, over a cup of tea in his office. He could not wait for Saturday either.

ooOoo

Molly and Mrs Hudson sat in the summer drawing room in the Holmes' country residence, sipping the tea provided by Mycroft's staff. They had their battle plan prepared and the time was fast approaching when they would have to put it to the ultimate test. First to arrive was John Watson, shown into the room by the butler.

'Hello, ladies!' he greeted them warmly. 'So you've been summoned by Lord Snooty, too. Who else is coming?' John asked, almost bursting from curiosity.

'We're just waiting for Greg,' replied Molly, feeling so guilty for the continued deception but relieved that soon everything would be revealed. 'Have some tea, John.'

'Oh, right. What's that then, Lap sang Choo song, or what?' he joked, accepting a cup of Orange Pekoe. 'So, this is where Sherlock and Mycroft grew up. No wonder they turned out the way they did. Just being here makes me want to tug my forelock and walk backwards from the room.' John sat down and they all chatted away until the door opened to admit Greg Lestrade.

'Well, I see the gang's all here,' he greeted them all, with a cheeky grin.

The butler approached Molly and asked, with deference,

'Is there anything you require, madam?'

'Could we have some more tea, please Andrew?' she asked. He bowed his head in acquiescence and took the tea tray away to be replaced with a fresh one, in a matter of minutes. As Mrs Hudson served them all with second cups of the hot brew, Molly prepared her opening lines.

'Well, hello, everyone. I'm really grateful to you for coming all the way out here, today. Mycroft will be joining us later but, before then, I have some things that I need to talk to you about.' There was something in her bearing and tone of voice that made them all sit up and take notice. Immediately, the atmosphere in the room changed, as all the other occupants looked at Molly with curiosity. Molly ploughed on.

'I've already told you about what happened the night before Sherlock jumped off the roof of St. Bart's but I still haven't told you everything. There's a lot that you don't know, not because I didn't want to tell you but because I wasn't allowed to. I was sworn to secrecy.' She looked around at her audience. Mrs Hudson looked expectant, Greg looked intrigued but John looked very emotional already. She quailed as she looked into his eyes, which bored into hers. There was hurt and suspicion in that glare and she had barely begun.

'But the need for secrecy is gone, now, so I can tell you everything. And I'm not going to beat about the bush. I'm just going to give it to you straight.' She took a deep, steadying breath, as her heart was pounding in her chest and her palms were slick with sweat.

'The reason why Sherlock jumped off the roof is because Moriarty had set contract killers on all three of you, with instructions that, if Sherlock did not die that day, you three would. Moriarty told him that there was no way the hit men could be called off and then he killed himself – shot himself in the head – to make it impossible for the assassins to be recalled…'

'Hold on, hold on, hold on….'John interrupted. 'I'm sorry. I'm having trouble getting my head around this. Are you saying that Sherlock died to save all of us?'

'No, John. I'm not saying that, exactly. I'm saying that Sherlock _jumped_ to save all of you. But he didn't die. He's alive.'

'What?!' Lestrade gasped. 'He's alive?'

'NO!' shouted John, jumping to his feet. 'He died. I saw him. He jumped off the roof, he hit the ground, there was blood everywhere. I took his pulse – there was no pulse. He was fucking dead! Why are you saying this?'

'John, I know this is hardest for you but I can explain everything,' Molly entreated him.

'Then get on with it then!' John snapped. Both Greg Lestrade and Mrs Hudson moved to sit beside John and placed soothing hands on his arms but he shrugged them off.

'Leave me alone, I'm not a child,' he snarled. Molly went on,

'When Sherlock came to see me, the night before, he told me he was going to have to die. He didn't know then about the contracts on you three but he knew that Moriarty would settle for nothing less than his death so, rather than wait for Moriarty to kill him, he had to do it himself – or rather find a way to fake it that would convince everyone, especially the hit men, that he really was dead. He hatched a plan – a very complex plan, which I'm not going to go into now, but the key to its success was you, John.' She looked at the doctor, with eyes that pleaded for his patience and understanding.

'I'm sorry, Molly, but I'm just not getting this. How could I be so important when I didn't even know anything about it,' he countered.

Molly knew that this next part would be the hardest of all to say and harder still to hear. She was about to stab John Watson in the heart. She steeled herself in anticipation of his reaction.

'The mechanics of the hoax were easy enough to achieve, easy for Sherlock, anyway, but in order for everyone to believe it, he needed a star witness, an unimpeachable witness. That had to be you, John. You had to believe he was dead in order to convince everyone else.'

John's head was in turmoil. He could not believe what he was hearing, couldn't take it in. He felt short of breath, like he was having a panic attack or something. He stood up but then couldn't move so sat back down. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words would come out. He was in shock. Mrs Hudson put something into his hand and said,

'Drink this, John,' so he did. It was tea – sweet tea. He didn't like sweet tea but he drank it anyway. The sugar seemed to help. He felt his head clearing, his heart rate slowing and he could breathe again. Mrs Hudson was holding his hand and patting his arm. He eased his hand away from her and said,

'I'm OK, I'm fine, thank you,' then he looked back at Molly and said, 'Let me get this straight. He needed me to witness his death? Of course he did!' The penny was dropping, at last. All the pieces of the puzzle were clicking into place. He stood up, with a look of incredulity on his face and walked over to the fire place, placing his hands on the marble mantle and leaning forward, shaking his head.

'He said that! He said, Stay where you are. Keep your eyes on me. Will you do this for me? He was telling me what he wanted me to do. He used me. He bloody well used me.'

'He had to, John, it was the only way. He didn't want to and it hurt him so much to have to do it but he had no choice.' Molly tried to placate him

'Hurt him? Did it? Did it really? Well, good! I'm fucking glad it did! So where the hell is he? Where's he been these last three years? What the fuck is going on, here?'

'He's been in a deep cover operation to dismantle Moriarty's organisation, worldwide. Until every last one of his operatives had been neutralised, the contracts on you three were still potentially active. Up until two weeks ago, you three were still at risk of being assassinated, if anyone were to discover that Sherlock wasn't dead.'

Greg Lestrade, who had been sitting with his mouth open for most of the last few minutes, was suddenly on his feet.

'Just a minute. Are you saying that I have had a price on my head for the last three years and no one thought to tell me?' he bellowed.

'You couldn't know. To all intents and purposes, Sherlock was dead so the contracts were off. To tell you about the contracts, you would have had to know that Sherlock was not dead and that would have carried the risk of reactivating the contracts. Do you understand? It was a 'Catch 22' situation.'

'So where is Sherlock now?' John asked. He seemed suddenly distracted, thoughtful, distant.

'He's undergoing debriefing, has been for the last week and a half,' Molly explained.

John put his hand to his brow. Molly's last two statements had struck a chord with him. 'Deep cover' and 'debriefing' were two terms that held more meaning for John, with his military back ground, than for either of the other two.

'And how much longer?' he asked.

'You know how it works, John. As long as it takes,' she replied.

'Oh, my God,' was all John could say, as he walked over to the sofa and sat back down.

'But what about William? Did Sherlock know you were pregnant when he went away?' Greg asked,

'No, he knew nothing about William until he came back to the UK. Mycroft and I agreed that it would be too risky to tell him while he was involved in the operation. It would have made him vulnerable. I told him last week.'

John was still trying to assimilate all the information – there was so much to take in.

'So have they met yet, him and the boy?' enquired Greg.

'He's seen him, asleep, but they haven't really met. He wanted to get the debriefing over with first.'

Now John, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson all seemed lost in their own thoughts, for a moment. Everything that had happened in the last three years now needed to be viewed in light of this new information. There was a lot to think about.

Mrs Hudson looked at Molly and smiled, reassuringly. Well, she had been right about one thing, at least. Sherlock did have a very good reason to fake his own death and disappear for three years. He had done it to save her and John and Greg. What a good friend he had been to them all. What a huge sacrifice he had made for them. She hoped that the two men appreciated this as well as she did.

When Mycroft came into the room, a few moments later, he was both surprised and impressed with how calm everyone seemed to be. No one was cursing or shouting and no one had 'bolted', either. He raised his eyebrows at Molly, giving silent congratulations on a mission well accomplished. Now John had lots of questions for Mycroft, so Molly took the opportunity to slip out of the room and go in search of William. She found him in the kitchen with the cook, sitting at the kitchen table with a biscuit and a glass of milk. She sat next to him and listened attentively whilst he told her about all the adventures that he had had with his uncle that afternoon, out in the wilderness of the Holmes' estate. No more secrets, she thought. Well, just one – the true circumstances of William's conception. But there were some things their friends did not need to know. She felt an enormous weight lift from her shoulders. She had not even realised how tense she had been, until now. She heaved a huge sigh and relaxed – really relaxed – for the first time in over three years.

ooOoo

Much later, that evening, the sleek, black sedan came to a gentle halt outside John and Mary's building and John got out. He opened the front door to his flat and walked inside. Mary was sitting in her favourite chair, curled up with a book – a law book, but never the less a book. She looked up and smiled, asking,

'Well, what was it all about?'

John shook his head from side to side, trying to work out where to begin, then inspiration seemed to strike.

'You know that friend of mine I told you about, the one that died? Yes, well, he didn't.'

ooOoo

It was two more days before Molly heard from Sherlock. Mycroft had been right, as usual, and the debriefing process had taken longer than anticipated. When Molly answered Sherlock's phone call, she could hear in his voice evidence of what an ordeal it had been. He sounded very tired - weary, in fact - and a little light-headed but also relieved. It would appear that his undercover alter ego had been well and truly expunged.

'I want to come and meet William but first I need to see John. I think I owe it to him. I gather he took it hard, when you told him what I did.'

'Only to begin with,' Molly replied. 'I think it was the shock more than anything. Once he got his head round it all, he was pretty OK. Mycroft filled them in with all the details about the fake death and the covert operation. I left him to it. I'm just glad I don't have to lie any more. It's such hard work!'

'Yes,' he agreed. 'Tell me about it.'

'So when are you seeing John?' she asked.

'Tomorrow,' he said, 'He's coming to 221B Baker Street.'

'Oh, so you're back there now, are you?' she smiled as she spoke.

'Not yet,' he breathed, 'but I will be by tomorrow. I'm going home.'

ooOoo


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.**

**Chapter Six**

A black cab drew up outside 221 Baker Street and the tall slim figure in the long black coat stepped out, paid the cabbie and crossed the pavement to the front door, ringing the bell. After a short pause, the door was opened by a petite older lady in a patterned house dress.

'Sherlock!' she said and hugged him tightly. 'Welcome home. Your flat is just as you left it; I haven't moved a thing, just picked things up to clean under them then put them back in the exact same place. The fire's on, there's milk and bread in the kitchen and I've made up your bed with fresh linen.'

'You spoil me, Mrs Hudson,' he chided her, affectionately. 'Remember, you're my landlady, not my housekeeper!'

'Yes,' she gave him an equally affectionate poke in the ribs, 'and don't you forget that, young man!'

They parted in the hallway and he mounted those familiar stairs with an over-powering sense of deja vue. The number of times he had climbed those stairs before yet never with so much emotion. It was very good to be home. Mrs Hudson was true to her word. Everything was, as far as he could remember, exactly where he had left it, with the obvious exceptions of his last experiment and his late collection of body parts. The fridge was clean and empty but for a litre of fresh milk and a tub of spreadable butter; and the kitchen work tops were bare but for a loaf of bread. All his science equipment – petrie dishes, retorts, test tubes, pipettes and the like - were stored in one of the kitchen cupboards. His microscope stood on the kitchen table, with a box of clean slides next to it.

Walking through to the sitting room, he noted his favourite chair, sitting opposite the one John always used, the bison skull, on the wall, with the head phones still in place, the human skull on the mantle and the pen knife lying next to it, waiting to secure some newly unread mail. He scanned the room, drinking in all its comfortable familiarity. Even the yellow-painted smiley face, its outline traced in bullet holes, still endured. What a treasure Mrs Hudson was. He could not imagine any other landlady would tolerate such behaviour from a tenant. Moving through to his bedroom, he looked at the Periodic Table on the wall behind the door and the martial arts poster above his bed; his double bed made up with Egyptian cotton sheets, crisp and fresh from the laundry. He took off his coat, threw it over the bedroom chair, kicked off his shoes and lay down on the bed.

The sound of the doorbell roused him from a deep, dreamless sleep. He rolled over and sat up on the side of the bed, feeling groggy and disorientated, then the bell rang again and he remembered who it would be. He ran down the stairs, calling to Mrs Hudson that he was on it, and opened the front door that led out to the street. John and Sherlock stood, one each side of the threshold, looking at one another, both taking in the familiar features and also the changes that three years and three months had wrought in the other.

'Well, are you going to let me in or are we just going to stand here and look at each other?' John asked, in his typically sardonic way. Sherlock pursed his lips in a half smile, stepped aside and beckoned his visitor into the house. John walked into the hallway and then stood at the bottom of the stairs, looking up. Sherlock closed the front door then stood behind his long lost friend and waited for him to complete whatever thought process was holding him in limbo. Eventually, the doctor reached out and put his hand on the newel post of the stair rail. He walked up the stairs and Sherlock followed him. At the top of the stairs, John walked straight on into the sitting room whilst Sherlock turned left into the kitchen and put the kettle on, watching the other man, as he walked around the sitting room in much the same way as Sherlock had done earlier. John completed his circuit and then came to stand opposite Sherlock, on the other side of the table. The two men looked at one another, again. At last, John drew a sharp intake of breath and spoke,

'Well, that's two things I never, ever thought I would do again – set foot in 221B Baker Street and look at your fucking ugly face.' His voice cracked but he held up his hand to deter any overly-emotional reciprocation from the other man, even though he knew not to expect it.

"John," said Sherlock, in the rich baritone voice that he remembered so well, "I owe you a thousand apologies.'

'Too fucking right, you do, you sneaky bastard!' John snapped. 'Now make that bloody tea and come and tell me what the hell has been going on whilst I've been wasting my god-damned time, mourning your passing.' With that, he turned and walked back into the sitting room and sat down in his favourite chair. Sherlock cracked a small smile and finished making the tea.

When Mrs Hudson came up the stairs, two hours later, carrying a tray of sandwiches and a coffee cream cake, she heard the two men laughing, hysterically. She smiled to herself. Her boys were back together again, each one not quite complete without the other. She put down her tray and set about making a pot of tea to serve to the Baker Street Boys. Later still, after she heard the front door close behind John Watson, returning to his own flat and his wife, she traced Sherlock's footsteps across her ceiling and heard his bedroom door close and the bedsprings creak. No pacing, no sobbing, no sadness at all. Things had changed and would never be quite the same again but Holmes and Watson were still a team and they would adapt to the new arrangement.

ooOoo

Molly looked out of the front window of her sitting room for the umpteenth time in as many minutes. She was flitting around the room, straightening cushions that were already straight, dusting invisible dust motes off pristine surfaces, sitting for a moment then up and off again, round the room, looking for things to do. William was playing in his bedroom, building another Lego masterpiece, honing his skills of fine motor manipulation and cerebral creativity. He could occupy himself for hours like this, making hypotheses and testing them out in small, plastic bricks. Molly glanced out of the window again and caught a glimpse of a long, black coat as it swished through the gate way. Moments later, the entry phone buzzed. She went to the door, checked it was Sherlock's face in the security monitor and pressed the button to release the lock. Opening the front door to her flat, she let him in. She gave him a quick peck on the cheek and patted his arm.

'Don't look so worried. He won't bite you,' she smiled.

'It's not so much the biting that I'm worried about. It's more the screaming and the running away,' he replied. Molly gave a little laugh, took his coat and invited him into the sitting room.

'I think it would be best if you sat down. You'll be more on his level. He knows you're coming today and he knows who you are, remember. He's been kissing your photo ever since he was born. He may just need a minute to adjust to you being here in the flesh. Just let him do it in his own time.' She patted his arm again and disappeared through the door which led to the bedrooms, as he sat down in the arm chair and tried to steady his racing heart rate. He heard Molly's voice as she came back toward the sitting room, and then she stepped through the door, carrying his son, William, in the crook of her arm. She stood still, just inside the doorway and said,

'William, this is your daddy. He's come home, at last.'

Two pairs of almond eyes gazed at one another, two Cupid's bow mouths pursed, two sculpted faces remained impassive. Then William turned to look at his mother, reached out a small pointing finger toward the seated man and said

'Daddy?'

'Yes,' she said, 'That's your daddy. He's come to see you.'

William flapped his legs to indicate that he wanted to be put down so Molly stood him on the carpet. He walked towards Sherlock but stopped next to the sofa and leaned on the arm, scrutinising Sherlock's face then scanning over his shoulders, arms and legs, down to his feet, then back up to his face. Sherlock, for his part, continued to sit quietly, watching his son gather his own data. Having completed his visual survey, William stepped forward, cautiously, reached out a tentative hand and touched Sherlock's left knee. Immediately, a broad smile lit up his face and he threw himself at his father, shouting,

'Daddy!'

Sherlock scooped him up onto his lap and returned his broad smile, hugging him close, as the little boy put one arm round his father's neck and held his free hand against Sherlock's cheek; they still gazed intently into each other's eyes.

'Yes, William, I'm your daddy.'

Molly excused herself to go to the kitchen and put on the kettle. She brushed a couple of stray tears from her cheeks and shook her head, chiding herself for being such a blub-er. She had dreamed of this day for so long and it had not disappointed. She could only imagine how it must have felt for Sherlock to watch his son adopt the same strategies as he would himself when faced with a novel situation. The first time she had noticed William 'scanning', she had convinced herself that she had imagined it but when it became an established facet of his behaviour, she had to recognise that the skill that set Sherlock Holmes apart from all other men had been somehow genetically passed on to his son. What was it that Sherlock used to say? Once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever was left, however improbable, must be the truth? So there it was. The evidence was irrefutable. If the almond eyes and the razor sharp cheek bones were not sufficient proof that this was indeed Sherlock's child, then the no one could deny the boy displayed all the signs of being a fledgling detective.

As Molly was pouring boiling water into the warmed tea pot, William appeared in the kitchen area, dragging Sherlock by one hand.

'Go owside?' he asked, cocking his head on one side.

'Of course, darling, but put your wellies on. It's a bit damp out there,' Molly replied. William picked up his wellingtons, from where they stood, side by side, on a piece of newspaper, by the back door. He held them up to Sherlock.

'He still needs a bit of help with getting dressed,' Molly explained to Sherlock.

'Shall I do it?' she asked him.

'No,' he replied. 'In the parent stakes, I have a bit of catching up to do so I better start learning.' Sherlock knelt down on the floor and sat William on his knees, folded the bottoms of his son's trousers round his ankles and pulled his socks up over them, to keep them in place. Then he pushed the little boy's feet into his wellington boots and lifted him back up to standing.

'Wow!' exclaimed Molly, 'that was pretty textbook for a first try. Have you been having secret parenting lessons?' Sherlock smiled, a little embarrassed.

'No, but I did grow up in the country, remember, where wellingtons are de rigueur for ten months of every year. I always knew my privileged up-bringing would come in handy someday,' he gave her a knowing nod, then opened the back door and followed William out into the garden.

When Molly came out a few minutes later, carrying a tray of tea things, which she placed on the wrought iron table that occupied centre stage on the paved patio, Sherlock and William were about half way down the garden, giving close attention to something in one of the shrubs which grew in the perennial borders. As she watched them, she saw Sherlock reach into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and take out his folding magnifying glass. He held it in front of whatever it was they were looking at and then handed it to William, who continued to hold it next to the mystery object and peer through it, whilst Sherlock drew his attention to some detail which he felt was particularly interesting, relevant or crucial.

Molly smiled to herself. Sherlock had told her he did not know what he could bring to the parenting table. This was exactly what he could bring. She thought back to the time she had spent with her own dad, doing just this sort of thing. It filled her heart with joy to think that her boy would be able to look back on his early life and relish these memories of 'Days out with Dad'. At this moment in time, she felt that her world was complete. It could not get any better.

'Tea's ready!' she called, pouring tea into two cups and taking a glass of milk and a plate of biscuits off the tray. She sat and sipped her tea as she watched the two people she loved best in the world walk, hand in hand, up the garden towards her, so easy in each other's company.

ooOoo


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

Sherlock strolled into the Pathology Department, at St Bart's hospital, walked down the corridor, through the double doors and into Molly's lab. She was just putting her coat on and she waved to him from the other side of the room. He stood by the entrance, looking round the familiar environment, with its shelves of bottles containing coloured liquids. He had often wondered what exactly all those coloured liquids were. They didn't look like any chemicals he knew and he had always suspected that they were just coloured water, put there to look nice – like a Damien Hurst art installation. Chemicals were usually stored in brown glass bottles, to prevent them reacting with the light. Definitely Damien Hurst, he concluded. Molly was shutting down her computer terminal and shuffling some papers into a neat pile, prior to picking up her hand bag and calling 'goodbye' to the other pathologists in the lab. She crossed towards Sherlock, smiling, stood on tip toe to give him a quick peck on the cheek and then walked through the door, as he held it open for her. As the doors swung back together, the other staff in the lab exchanged meaningful looks and smirky smiles.

'It is so nice doing 9 to 5 hours, now. No more Graveyard Shifts for me!' Molly crowed, as she and Sherlock stood waiting for the lift.

'Ah, Molly, some of my happiest memories are of late nights spent in the lab with you,' Sherlock teased her. She gave him a knowing look. She was completely immune to his flirting, nowadays, and, anyway, she knew he was only doing it to hide the fact that he was actually quite nervous. He was about to meet the staff at the hospital crèche. In order to be permitted to collect William, at any time, he had to be formally introduced as a 'named person'. Typically, he was dreading the ordeal. Molly could never quite understand how a person, who could face down the likes of Moriarty in a deserted swimming pool or bluff his way into a top security military research centre, could still find everyday social situations so daunting.

'Don't worry,' she reassured him. 'I'll hold your hand.'

'I sincerely hope not,' he bridled at the thought. 'People might talk.'

'People are already talking, you idiot,' she replied.

They reached the security gate in the perimeter fence and Molly pressed the call button.

'Smile for the camera,' she joked, as the receptionist buzzed them in. At the front desk, Molly introduced Sherlock as 'Mr Holmes, William's father'. The receptionist gave him a detailed visual examination, clearly liked what she saw and rewarded him with a searchlight smile, which made Sherlock quail. He could never understand the effect he seemed to have on women, just by looking the way he did, and, although he was happy to exploit it, in the course of an investigation, should the need arise, in his everyday life, he found it quite disconcerting. He was not easy in the company of women. Consequently, the current circumstances felt akin to entering a lion's den.

Molly led the way through the building to the 'Paddington Bear' room, where William's group was based. Pushing open the door, she invited Sherlock in. William looked up from his place at the 'gathering table', so named as it was where the children would gather at the beginning and the end of the day. He saw Molly first and was about to shout 'Mummy' when he saw Sherlock walk in behind her and he jumped up from his chair and raced across to throw himself into his father's outstretched hands. Sherlock lifted him up above his head and William waggled his arms and legs, chortling with glee at the sudden change of perspective. He had never seen this room from such a high vantage point.

Molly had walked over to the table and was introducing Sherlock to the nursery nurses, who ran the 'Paddington Bear' group. Sherlock would have happily hung back, by the door, playing with William, but Molly was beckoning him over and she had that look in her eye that said 'disobey at your peril' so he joined her at the table. The two young women rose from their seats in unison, and simpered at him – there really was no other word to describe what they did. He nodded at them and looked longingly at the exit, willing this ordeal to end, but the ritual of the daily report had to be observed and William's coat and bag needed to be handed over which, unfortunately, involved standing in close proximity to one or the other of these young women and the making of small talk. Gritting his teeth, Sherlock took the proffered coat and put William down on the floor to help him on with it, listened attentively to the account of William's day and then took possession of the back pack, which contained a change of clothes (in case of accidents) and some snack bars. Ritual over, Molly thanked the girls and said 'goodbye', then led the way back out of the crèche, collecting the buggy on the way. Sherlock looked at the buggy with disdain.

'Does he really need that thing?' he asked.

'Well, it is quite a long walk home, for his little legs,' Molly replied

'I can carry him, if he gets tired,' came the retort.

'You might be able to but he's too heavy for me,' Molly argued. 'Sherlock, what is your problem with the buggy?'

'It's just not…..'

'Cool? Is that the problem? Is it not cool to be seen pushing a buggy?' Molly teased him

'Don't be ridiculous,' he exclaimed, 'that's not what I meant at all! It's just…oh, alright. But as soon as he turns three, the buggy goes, OK?'

'We'll see,' Molly deferred, diplomatically

'And if we are out together, you push,' he added, just to clarify his position. Molly dissolved into giggles, and Sherlock strode off, indignantly, carrying William, who smiled and waved at this mother, over Sherlock's shoulder.

Molly and Sherlock were still working out the logistics of co-parenting their son. They had decided on a schedule of increasing involvement. To begin with, it had been agreed that Sherlock would visit William at Molly's flat and they would go out for treats as a threesome. Then, when Sherlock thought he was up to the task, he could take William out for walks and treats on his own but always have him back for supper time. If Molly needed to go away for an overnight stay, to a pathology conference or some such thing, Sherlock would stay at her flat overnight and take care of William and, eventually, William would come and stay for an overnight at Sherlock's flat in Baker Street. Sherlock planned to refurnish John's old room for William, so it would be like a second home. Being introduced to William's nursery was part of the plan. Now he would be able to collect William from the nursery himself, when the need arose.

Molly had been impressed with the enthusiasm with which Sherlock had embraced the task of learning to be a father and, for someone who claimed to have had no appropriate role models, he seemed to have a naturel flair for fatherhood. As with all things, he had his own inimitable style. He and William had quickly established a close affinity due, Molly felt, to their shared perspective on the world. William had so many of Sherlock's character traits, it was a bit scary. She sincerely hoped that he did not grow up to be as socially inept as his father, particularly where women were concerned, because she rather looked forward to being a grandmother someday.

Sherlock had a lot of time on his hands at the moment. Although his name had been cleared, with regard to the kidnap of the diplomat's children, the level of his involvement in the various investigations on which he had been consulted by Met officers, had caused something of a furore in the press, three years previously. Senior officers like Lestrade and Dimmock, who had consulted him most frequently, had been severely reprimanded for giving a 'civilian' access to confidential police files. The newspapers had gone to town on the story of Sherlock's return from the dead and had raked up all the controversy that had surrounded his 'suicide'. Consequently, Lestrade and his fellow DI's were loath to use Sherlock on any cases, at the present time, though Greg assured him that this would change, eventually. The irony was not lost on Sherlock. When had he ever read anything remotely enlightening in a police file? The traffic had almost always been one way, where intelligence was concerned. However, the fact remained that, apart from the bits and pieces that Mycroft asked him to help out with, he was reduced to spending his time investigating cold cases, some from hundreds of years ago, that he found on .com and similar websites, on the 'net. His success rate, unfortunately, was making him less than popular with the website managers, so he was blocked from an increasing number of sites.

It was tempting to fill the empty hours with William, but Sherlock knew this was unfair. The little boy had a good pattern to his daily life which needed to be preserved and Sherlock was very aware that there could come a time when he might disappear for days on end, on a case, so he had to ration his contact time with his son. It was a fine balancing act but he and Molly were working on getting the balance right.

This particular evening, having collected William from the crèche, they took the ten minute walk back to Molly's flat, for a quiet night in. Sherlock and William watched a wild life documentary, about soldier ants in the Amazon jungle, while Molly prepared supper, after which, Sherlock was on bath and bedtime duty. It had been agreed between them that Sherlock would come over two evenings a week, whilst he was still unemployed, at least, and would take William out on his own on Saturdays. Sundays were to be flexible but a 'family' outing was fast becoming routine. This coming Sunday, they had arranged to meet up with John and Mary for a pub lunch. Sherlock had only met Mary a couple of times and he still felt awkward in her company but Molly put that down to a combination of his innate gaucheness around women and his subconscious perception of her as an interloper. He had never been able to tolerate any of John's girlfriends so why should his wife be an exception? Molly had explained all this to Mary and advised her not to take it personally. John, for his part, had put a blanket ban on Sherlock analysing Mary and threatened that, if he caught him 'scanning' her, he would not answer for the consequences. Sherlock had been warned.

Having put William to bed and read him the story of his choice, Sherlock returned to the sitting room and accepted a glass of wine from Molly.

'He loves it when you read him stories,' Molly commented. 'I think it's your deep voice. It just makes the words sound so much more interesting. I sound like a duck quaking when I read to him.' Sherlock looked at her and shook his head.

'Don't put yourself down,' he said. 'You sound like the old Molly. I think we both know she never really existed – only in my head.' She looked at him, with curiosity.

'Where did that come from?' she asked. He turned to look at her, head on, from where he sat on the sofa. His face was suddenly intense and deadly serious.

'Molly, how did you ever put up with me, all those years, when I was being such an arse to you?' She looked down for a moment then back at him.

'I knew you didn't really mean it,' she replied.

'Oh, but I did!' he said. 'I really did. I thought about this a lot, after that last night, before I went away.' Molly was taken by surprise. They had never mentioned that night – not specifically. Even though William was the palpable consequence of what had happened between them, neither of them had ever referred to it directly. It was the elephant in the room. Now Sherlock had broached the subject, Pandora's Box was open. She wasn't sure where this conversation was going and she was experiencing a 'fight or flight' response. Her mouth felt dry, her stomach was full of butterflies, her head felt light and her cheeks were drained of colour. She froze in her chair, waiting for Sherlock to make the next move. He seemed, as usual, blissfully unaware of the effect his words were having

'I always knew you were attracted to me but every woman I've ever met seems to be attracted to me.' Had this been any other man speaking, this would have come across as crass arrogance and complete narcissism. But Molly knew he was just stating the facts. 'To me, it was just an inconvenience but one that I could exploit. I knew that, if I wanted a special favour, I just had to smile at you or give you a compliment and you would give me whatever I wanted. I was ruthless. You must have known that, didn't you?'

Molly really did not want to be having this conversation but she could see that Sherlock did and, as he had just said, she could not refuse him anything that he wanted.

'Yes, I knew and at times I thought I hated you for it. I felt really used, sometimes.'

'So why did you put up with me? Why didn't you just tell me to piss off?' he asked, candidly.

This was getting tougher by the minute. All her old insecurities were flooding back, remembering all the times that Sherlock had made her feel so small and ridiculous; criticising the size of her breasts and her mouth, commenting about her weight fluctuations. Why had she put up with him?'

'Sherlock, isn't it obvious?' she asked him.

'Not to me, no.' She could see by his eyes that he really meant that. She knew she was going to have to bare her soul here, tonight, because in his own way, he was baring his.

'You won't like what I'm going to say,' she said, feeling desperate.

'But I still want you to say it,' he persisted.

Oh, well, she thought, here goes everything.

'I did it because I loved you.' There, she had said it.

He was processing this piece of information, like any other piece of data, running it through his logic systems and seeing how it might compute.

'And that was enough?' he asked, genuinely puzzled.

'More than enough,' she replied. She had started now so she might as well finish.

'You were the light of my life. When you walked into a room, the room lit up and when you walked out, it went dark. Just being near you made my life worthwhile. The days I didn't see you were wasted days.' She was still watching his eyes and she could see that he was still processing. 'I would have done anything for you.'

'You are using the past tense,' he observed, almost clinically. 'Have your feelings changed?'

'Yes,' she answered, without hesitation.

This was really giving him pause for thought. He considered her response for a long time. Then he spoke again.

'So have you stopped loving me?'

'No. I just love you in a different way.'

That answer really threw him. He was way out of his depth now but he needed to try to get to the bottom of this.

'Explain what's different about the way you love me now,' he requested.

'I finally realised, in those last few days before everything went crazy, that you were the innocent victim in all of this. You never asked for me to fall in love with you. You would have been much happier if I hadn't. I was just being selfish, wanting you to reciprocate my feelings. You are who you are and, after all, that is the person I fell in love with, so why should I want you to change? I was being irrational. If you were the sort of person who found relationships easy, you would have been snapped up by now by some gorgeous woman, because you would have been able to have any woman you wanted. You were way out of my league.' She paused to let him digest this information and then went on.

'I realised that what we had was so much more, so much better than what I thought I wanted. You said it yourself, that night in my lab. You said I did count, that I had always counted and that you had always trusted me. That meant more to me than anything else ever could. And the fact that you came to me for help, of all the people you could have gone to, you chose me. That meant so much, too. All those years, I'd been looking for the fairy tale when, all along, what I had – what I have – is the reality. This is real, sitting here having this conversation. This is what matters to me.' She could see he had that dazed look again, just as he had in the airport. He was going to need time to process all of this. She sat back in her chair and took a gulp of wine. She was not surprised when he stood up and said,

'I need to go.'

She walked him to the door and gave him her customary peck on the cheek. That was one concession she had won through persistence. He hardly even noticed when she did it, now.

'Safe journey home,' she said. 'Try not to get run over.'

'I won't. Or rather, I will,' he said, distractedly.

She watched him, on the monitor, walk down the path and out into the street. She knew he would go home to Baker Street and sit and pluck his violin for half the night, mulling over everything she had said and that, next time they met, he would have compartmentalised it all and they would be just fine with each other. That was one of the many things she loved about Sherlock Holmes.

ooOoo


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

Molly pushed William in his buggy, round the crescent of the street where they lived, to the gateway to their building. As she turned in, through the gate, she saw a woman standing by the outer door to the building, holding a mobile phone to her ear. She looked to be around the mid to late fifties in age, dressed in stylish but conservative clothing and court shoes; well groomed. She had with her a large, expensive-looking suit case on wheels. As Molly approached, the woman turned toward her, a flustered air about her.

'Hello,' Molly said, with a kindly smile, 'Are you OK? Can I help you?'

'Oh, my dear,' the woman addressed Molly in a pleasant Dublin accent and smiled a worried smile. 'I'm here to visit my niece, Marina Marshall. She lives in the top flat. I don't know if you know her?'

Molly gave a small shrug. 'I sort of know of her. We have met occasionally but I can't say we really know each other, you know how it is in a big city. You never really get to know your neighbours, do you?' Molly realised she was babbling and so shut up.

'Yes, well,' the lady went on, 'I texted her from the station to let her know I was nearly here but she hasn't replied and now she's not answering her door.' The woman looked perturbed. 'It's a bit chilly out here on the step. I don't suppose you could let me in to wait in the hall, could you?' Molly looked at the pleading expression on the lady's face and was moved by her plight.

'Of course!,' she said, with a smile, 'In fact, why don't you come and wait in my flat. We can have a cup of tea!'

'Oh, no, dear, I couldn't possibly impose on you so much. I'll be fine in the hall,' the lady replied.

'It's no trouble, really,' Molly insisted, as she put in the key code and pushed open the door. 'Anyway, there isn't even a chair in the hall. I can hardly leave you standing there, can I? Who knows how long your niece might be.'

'Well, that's most kind of you,' the lady replied, smiling with gratitude.

Molly led the way into the hall way and told the lady to leave her case inside the front door, as she unlocked the internal door to her flat and invited the woman in. 'Your case will be safe there, I assure you,' she told her.

Once inside the flat, Molly lifted William out of the buggy, removed his outer clothing and let him run into the sitting room, to switch on his favourite TV programme. She stowed the buggy in the cupboard, took the lady's coat and hung it, with hers and William's, on the coat pegs in the hall way.

'Please come in,' she invited the woman to enter the sitting room ahead of herself. 'I'll just put the kettle on. You have a seat.' As Molly walked through the sitting room to the kitchen at the back of the flat, the lady followed her.

'This is a lovely flat you have here, my dear,' she commented, appreciatively.

'Oh, please call me Molly,' Molly insisted, as she set about preparing the tea.

'Then you must call me Bernadette,' her guest smiled. 'And what a sweet little boy, you have, too. So quiet and well-behaved.'

'Oh, don't you be fooled,' Molly joked, 'He has his moments, believe me!'

'Ah, well, that's little boys for you.' There was a wistful tone to Bernadette's voice that made Molly look at her, with sympathy. The woman went on,

'I had a wee boy, a lovely wee boy…' her voice trailed off, and Molly felt a lot of pain and sorrow in the silence that followed. 'Still,' the lady seemed to shake herself, 'It doesn't do to dwell on the past, now does it? Oh, thank you, dear!' she smiled and accepted the mug of hot tea that Molly passed to her, across the kitchen table. Molly turned to root around in the fridge for the makings of hers and William's supper, as the lady said,

'Oh, I put my hand bag down in your parlour, dear. I wonder if Marina has answered my call.' She put down her cup and walked back into the sitting room, picked up her hand bag from the arm chair and took out a chunky device that looked a little like a mobile phone but was too thick and blocky in shape. She pressed a button on the front of the device and a green LED came on. She pushed the object down the side of the seat cushion on the arm chair, then, putting her hand back into the hand bag, she took out a compact semi-automatic pistol. She turned and walked back into the kitchen, carrying the pistol casually at her side. She stopped at the kitchen table, picked up her mug of tea in her free hand and took a sip.

'You do make a smashing cup of tea, Miss Hooper,' she said. Molly began to respond to the compliment and then registered the use of her formal name. She froze with alarm and then turned to look at the woman, who stood in her kitchen, pointing a gun at her chest.

'You know, Miss Hooper, you really should not be so trusting,' she said, smiling no longer. Molly was struck dumb with shock and a rising feeling of dread.

'Now, we don't want to frighten the wee man, do we, so you are going to get together a few bits and bobs for an over-night stay and then you and I are going to take little William for a ride in my van. And don't even think of trying to ring your smart boyfriend or his even smarter brother, as the phones will not be working. Oh, and don't bother looking at the surveillance cameras, either. They are also indisposed. I'll just sit with the wee boy whilst you get your things together.' The woman waggled the gun to direct Molly towards the corridor to the bedrooms. 'Don't take long, my dear. We don't have all day.'

Molly walked swiftly to William's bedroom. Her mind and her heart were racing and she could not think straight. She began shoving things into a sports bag, on automatic pilot, selecting items she would normally take for an over-night visit somewhere – underwear, socks, PJ's, a change of clothes and the like. She picked up his bedtime toy, the little black and white Snoopy dog that Mycroft had bought for him when he was a new-born. He would not be able to sleep without it. She went into the bathroom and got his toiletries, pushing them into the side pocket of the bag. Then she saw the magnetic alphabet letters stuck to the side of the metal bath tub. William loved to play with them in the bath. She reached down and quickly rearranged the letters into a short phrase, brushing the spare letters into the bottom of the tub, then rushed out of the room and shut the door.

'Bernadette', or whatever she was called, was sitting in the arm chair, smiling benignly at her son. The gun was still in her hand, lying by her side, not visible, but Molly knew it was there. The woman looked up and smiled, now at Molly.

'Are we ready to go, then? Lovely! Come along, William, we are going on a little adventure!' William looked at the woman and frowned, then looked at his mother. She was smiling but she did not look happy, William thought. And why were they going out when they had only just come home? William didn't like sudden changes of routine, they unsettled him. He liked to know what was happening next. But his mummy was telling him to turn off the TV and something told him that he should do what she said, straight away. Molly dressed him in his outdoor clothes and put on her own coat. Then, she suddenly looked at the other woman, who was putting on her coat, too.

'What about food? We haven't eaten,' she said.

'Don't you worry, dear, I've thought of everything,' the lady said, in a sinister parody of concern and reassurance. She indicated that Molly should lead the way out of the flat, but she took hold of William's hand, keeping him with her. They passed the suit case, as they left through the front door, abandoning it. It had served its purpose. Down the path, they walked in single file, Molly in front. At the gate, the woman indicated she go left and Molly saw a blue Ford Transit van parked at the curb, two houses down. The woman took out a remote key and unlocked all the doors. She told Molly to open the passenger side door and fasten William into the middle seat, between the driver and the passenger seats.

'There's no child seat,' Molly said, alarmed. The woman gave her a look which suggested that the lack of a child car seat might be the least of William's troubles in the next few hours or days, so Molly fastened him in. using the lap strap. Then she was told to get in herself, which she did and the woman said,

'Hold out your hands, Miss Hooper.' Molly held her hands out towards the woman, who slipped a cable tie around each wrist and looped one through the other, securing Molly's wrists together.

'Just in case you fancy making a run for it,' the woman remarked. She then slammed the passenger door closed and hurried around the front of the vehicle, climbing into the driver's seat. She dropped the gun into the door pocket, started the engine and drove away. There was no one in sight, to witness the double abduction of Molly and her child from one of the best guarded homes in London. It had been all too easy.

ooOoo


	9. Chapter 9

**Special thanks to Jaufre for the heads up about the microscope. I really do appreciate it as I do try to be technically accurate and that was clearly a big error. Cheers!**

**Chapter Nine**

Mycroft Holmes sat at his desk in his plush office in Whitehall, overlooking Horse Guards' Parade. The room resembled a gentleman's study, with its green leather wing chairs, walnut desk with brass fittings and a green leather panel inlaid into the desktop. On one side of the desk was the ubiquitous green reading lamp, favoured by many such gentlemen, on the other side, a bronze ink stand, featuring the figure of a water buffalo being attacked by a Bengal tiger. Mycroft was reading a document, with rapt attention, when a quick knock at the door was followed by the appearance of his PA, Anthea, in the door way. He looked up, his interest piqued by the fact that she had not waited to be told to enter.

'Sir,' she said, 'we've had a call from Tech Centre. Surveillance is down in the whole of Miss Hooper's area.' Mycroft was on his feet immediately.

'Have you scrambled the Hooper team?' he barked. She replied in the affirmative.

'And my driver?'

'Down stairs,' she said.

Mycroft left his office at a brisk walk and followed his PA into the vintage lift, alighting at the ground floor and exiting through the main doors of the building, slipping straight into the back seat of the waiting car. Even as the car moved away, he had his mobile in his hand and was pressing Sherlock's speed dial number. Sherlock answered on the third ring.

'To what do I owe the…..' Sherlock began to drawl but was cut off by Mycroft's urgent tone.

'Surveillance is down in Molly's building and her phone is going straight to voice mail. I'm on my way to pick you up.'

'No!' Sherlock snapped. 'Go straight there. I'll get a cab and meet you.' He shut off his phone, jumped up from the kitchen table where he had been looking into the lens of his microscope, and hit the ground running.

ooOoo

The woman drove the blue van by a very circuitous route, using all manner of back roads and residential streets, presumably to avoid CCTV surveillance, Molly guessed. After about half an hour, she pulled onto an abandoned demolition site, which had been pressed into service as a temporary car park, by the indigenous population. She stopped the van and shut off the engine.

'Right,' she said,' just need to do a bit of housekeeping.' She reached across in front of Molly, into the glove compartment under the dashboard and took out a device that looked like a small hair drier. She flicked on a switch and it began to hum, quietly. Molly's eyes widened in alarm as the woman moved the device to point it at the top of William's head.

'Don't hurt him!' she begged. But the woman just laughed and then began to move the device down William's body, in a scanning motion. It continued to hum quietly until she came to his shoes, then it emitted a high pitched whine.

'Oh, Mycroft Holmes, you're so predictable,' the woman laughed. 'Take off the child's shoes,' she ordered Molly, who looked at her without the slightest notion of what had just happened. 'Bernadette' saw her confusion and elucidated.

'Uncle Mycroft has had tracker devices fitted into the wee man's shoes, Miss Hooper. He's probably fitted one somewhere on you, too. I just need to find it.' Molly was amazed. She reluctantly removed William's shoes and passed them into the woman's outstretched hand. She put them in the door pocket.

'We'll deal with those, presently,' she said, mostly to herself. She got out of the van and came around to Molly's side, opening the door.

'Get out, Miss Hooper.' Molly's stomach lurched for the umpteenth time since this nightmare began but she did as she was told and got out of the van, giving William a reassuring smile as she did so. William just gazed at her with that solemn, strangely knowing look of his and continued to sit quietly in the front of the van. The abductor slid open a side door to reveal the empty rear interior of the vehicle.

'You will be travelling Club Class from here on in,' she said and gestured for Molly to get into the back of the van. Molly thought about this for a moment but could not see any way out of the situation at the present time, so she climbed in. She was directed to sit in the corner, behind the driver's seat, and her wrists were secured to a strut on the side of the van by a length of twine, put there for that precise purpose, slipped through the cable binders that encircled her wrists. Bernadette then took a sack-like bag out of her coat pocket and shoved it over Molly's head. It happened so fast, Molly could do nothing to avoid it but, plunged into the suffocating interior of the bag, she began to struggle, making it difficult for the woman to secure the draw-string fastening around Molly's neck. To elicit some co-operation, the woman banged Molly's head hard on the side of the van, splitting her eyebrow and causing her to see flashes of light in her vision. It worked, as she became passive and the draw string was tied tightly at the back of her neck, where she could not reach it. Having made Molly secure, the woman carried out a scan on her, too, with the detector device but she found nothing.

'Mycroft Holmes missed a trick, there,' she sneered and turned to get out of the van.

'Why are you doing this?' Molly called out, plaintively.

'You are a clever girl, Miss Hooper, I know you are. Why don't you take a leaf out of your smart boyfriend's book and figure it out for yourself. What is it he calls it, 'The Science of Deduction'? Well, you deduce.' She jumped out of the van and slid the door closed, shutting out even the defuse light that had permeated the inside of the blindfold bag. As the engine started up again and the vehicle began to move, Molly felt her panic rise and she began to shake violently.

ooOoo

By the time the cab dropped Sherlock outside Molly's building, the scene was a hive of activity. There were figures in blue SOC suits coming in and out and Mycroft was standing by a white Tech van, talking to someone inside. Sherlock hurried over to him and listened to what the technician had to say. The interior of the van was lined with the most state of the art surveillance monitoring equipment, including numerous key boards and monitor screens.

'The Wi-Fi went down at 17.24 hours, sir. We found a jammer stuffed down the side of a chair in the flat. It was very powerful, knocked out all the Wi-Fi signals over a half mile radius. Nothing was working until we shut it off.'

'What about before it was activated? What have you got saved?' Mycroft demanded.

The tech guy clicked back through a number of windows on his computer until the screen showed an image of Molly approaching the front door of her building. The men watched in silence as the earlier scene played out before their eyes. They observed the conversation and saw Molly open the door and lead the woman in. The view then changed to the vantage point just above the door from Molly's hall way to her sitting room. They saw William sit down to watch TV and Molly and the woman go into the kitchen. The technician moved the action on and the woman came back into view, approached the arm chair and took a black device from her hand bag. She handled it briefly, and the screen went blank.

There was a nanosecond of silence, before Mycroft said,

'What about the tracker?'

'We did have a brief signal, when the jammer was shut down. It was in Poplar, just north of the Isle of Dogs but it cut off after only five or so minutes. However, before it shut down, it was heading east. Last location was East India Dock Basin.'

'The basin?' Sherlock's face was a mask of concern.

'It's Ok, sir,' the tech interjected, raising a placatory hand. 'The shoes weren't being worn when the signal stopped. They have a bio-feed circuit which is only activates when the sensor is in contact with his feet. It works like those pulse monitors they put on your fingers in hospital.'

'I know how it works,' Sherlock snapped, in frustration. The man looked a little abashed but went on with his report.

'We've sent a team over there to retrieve the shoes and see if there were any witnesses to them being dumped. It might give us a lead. We are also checking the CCTV in the Isle of Dogs and Poplar area,' he concluded.

'Who is this woman? Do we have a full face?' Mycroft interjected.

The tech clicked to another window and it showed a full face image of the woman standing by the front door.

'We've run it through facial recognition, sir, but there's no match in any data base, so far. She appears to be an Unknown.'

Sherlock turned around and leant back on the side of the van, raising his hands to his head.

'We missed someone, Mycroft! How did that happen?' His voice was desolate.

Mycroft Holmes reached out his hand and placed it on his brother's shoulder, in a rare gesture of fraternal solidarity.

'Alright,' he said. 'Call Lestrade. We need the Met in on this. We need all the help we can get.'

ooOoo

Molly had been shaken around in the back of the van for what seemed like an age when, following a series of rapid direction changes, it came to a halt and the engine died. She leant her head on her upraised arms and heaved an exhausted sigh. Without being able to use her hands to aid her balance, she had been at the mercy of inertia and she felt battered and bruised. She heard the woman get out of the van and then some loud clanking noises and metallic screeches. Next moment, the side door of the van was opened and the woman got in. She untied the twine that held Molly's shackles to the side of the van and yanked her to her feet, pushing her out of the van, where she fell prone on a hard tarmac surface, scraping her knees and her elbows as she tried to break her fall. She could tell it was dark outside, and, by the smell of the air, that they were somewhere near water. The woman, who, despite her genteel appearance, was remarkably strong, dragged her up again and propelled her forwards into a cavernous space that rang with a metallic clang and amplified her footsteps. She was pushed over to a cold metal wall and made to sit on the hard bare floor, also metal and also cold. She heard the woman walk away and then return with William. She could not hear his footsteps, as he was in his stocking feet, having been stripped of his bugged shoes, but she sensed his presence. The woman pushed William towards Molly and he ran over and threw his arms round her neck. She could not see him, because of the bag over her head, or hug him, because of her bound wrists, but she spoke quiet, loving reassurances to him, as he clung to her. Molly felt the woman apply binders to her ankles, as she had to her wrists earlier, then the bag was unfastened and roughly removed. Molly looked around. She was in a large metal shed of some description. It was completely empty except for her, her child, the woman and a Tesco shopping bag which lay on the floor to her left. Her captor spoke.

'This is going to be your home for the next day or two. Not quite up to your usual standard but I hope you will be happy here.'

'Who are you?' Molly asked.

'Have you not worked it out yet? Goodness me, what does that smart man of yours see in you? You must be damn good in the sack because you don't seem to have much in the way of brains,' the woman taunted.

OK. Since you bothered to ask, I'll tell you. You know that wee boy I told you about? Well, he was a very clever wee boy and he grew up to be an even cleverer man. He was very successful, had a business that stretched right around the whole world and he was doing so very well for himself until he got involved with your man. That was his undoing. Your man killed him. I don't know how or why but I know he did. And, you know, I never even got to say goodbye to my wee man because his body has never been found but his business associates told me that your man was to blame for his death. They also told me that your boyfriend had died too, on the same day and that his evil brother was sworn to dismantle my boy's business empire, destroy everything he had worked so hard to create. And so he did, the evil murdering bastard. And just when I think it can't get any worse, I pick up the paper one day only to see that Sherlock bloody Holmes is not dead after all but has been in hiding for three years, hunting down some master criminal's henchmen. How DARE he call my darling wee boy a master criminal!' Her voice had been rising steadily as she related her twisted version of the facts, until she practically screamed the last few words.

Molly stared in horror at the mad, ranting female in front of her. She had guessed correctly, or perhaps deduced, that this revenge-crazed harridan was none other than the mother of James Moriarty.

The woman seemed to regain control and blew out a long breath.

'So, my dear Miss Hooper, it's payback time. Wouldn't you do anything to avenge the death of your wee boy, here, should he die in such a manner as my boy? Well, we'll see what your Mr Sherlock has to say for himself soon enough but for now, you are my guest, you and Sherlock Holmes' child. We'll let your man stew for a while and you can make yourself at home here for a day or two.' The woman reached behind her and threw the bag that Molly had packed for William on to the floor in front of her.

'There's food and drink over there, enough for a day or two, at least,' she smirked, indicating the Tesco bag.

'And you will be needing this, as I'm afraid this house has no windows.' She tossed a shiny red object onto William's bag. It was a clockwork wind up torch.

The woman turned and walked out of the shed and the heavy metal doors clanged shut, sealing them into the darkness.

ooOoo

'Sir, I think you should see this.' The man in the blue overall had approached Mycroft and Sherlock from the direction of Molly's building so the two brothers followed him back in, the way he had come. As they entered Molly's flat, Sherlock felt physically sick. How could he have been so stupid as to come back and announce to the world that he was, in fact, alive? It was bound to attract someone's attention. But who could it be? They had been so thorough. Moriarty's whole operation had been shut down, dismantled, destroyed. But they had obviously over-looked someone. The SOC man was leading them past the bedrooms. Sherlock looked into Molly's room, to see blue suited agents pouring over her possessions. It felt like witnessing a rape. Passing William's room, he looked in and saw the same gross invasion of privacy going on in there too and, although he knew it was necessary, it still felt wrong. The only consolation he could find in this was that these were Mycroft's men and not Anderson. They were being directed to William's bathroom. Sherlock walked to the doorway, and stopped dead. His eyes were drawn immediately to the magnetic letters on the side of the bath. They spelt out,

'jims mum gun.'

ooOoo


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

As the doors to her prison clanged closed and plunged them into complete darkness, Molly felt William go stiff and still.

'It's Ok, baby boy. Don't be frightened. Mummy's here,' she whispered.

The first priority was light. She needed to get the torch. William was clinging to her chest, pinning her arms to her body. She needed to free them. She pushed gently against his body and managed to get her hands up to his face, where she cupped his chin.

'Sit up, baby, and let go of Mummy, just for a minute.' She pushed him away and managed to get her arms free, above his head. She then brought her arms down, behind his back and held him to her. Every movement she made caused the hard, plastic edges of the cable ties to scrape against and cut into the skin of her wrists. It was so painful, it made her gasp but she had to ignore it. She had things she needed to do. Leaning forward, she groped around in the dark until her hands fell on the fabric of the sports hold-all. She pulled it toward her and then felt around inside, on top of William's things, and found the clockwork torch. Holding it between both hands, she explored its surface with her fingertips, looking for the on/off switch. There it was – a shield-shaped, soft, rubber bulge, on the top side of the torch. She pressed it with her right thumb and heard it click, but no light showed. It was obviously not wound up. Well, would Bernadette have made it that easy? Molly had to figure out how to wind it up. She felt around the shape in her hand until she found the winding handle, folded into the back of the case. She managed to flick it out, with her left thumb. Holding the torch in her right hand, she used the middle finger of her left hand to turn the winding handle round and round. As the battery inside was charged, the LED bulbs began to glow, getting brighter and brighter, making a white spot on the ceiling of the metal box.

'OK, William, we can see what we are doing now, at least,' she said, trying to sound as cheerful as possible. The next priority was to find out what food they had and, more specifically, what there was to drink. She needed to enlist William's help, partly to reduce the amount of movement she had to make – because the chaffing of her wrists by the cable ties was becoming quite excruciating, but mainly to get him involved in doing something, to occupy his mind and get him moving around, as it was deathly cold in the metal box. She shone the torch over to her left until it lighted on the Tesco bag.

'William,' she said, brightly, 'Look where Mummy is pointing. See the bag, baby? Can you get that bag for Mummy?' William lifted his head from her chest and looked in the direction of the torch beam. He could see the Tesco bag. He crawled out from under her arms and walked the short distance to the bag, grasped the handles and dragged it back across the floor to his mother, where he sat back down in her lap.

'Here, baby, you hold the torch. Point it in there so Mummy can see what food we've got.' William took the torch and directed the beam into the bag. Molly reached inside and started to take out the objects she found there.

Bananas – that was good. Slow release energy. Packets of crisps – not so good. The salt and the dryness of the crisps would make them thirsty, and it did not look as though they had much to drink. A four-pack of bottled water, half a litre in each. That would not last long, at all. She would have to ration the water. Chocolate bars – that was good. Again, slow-release energy and positive endorphins. That seemed to be all there was in the bag. Bearing in mind that they had not eaten any supper, she knew that William needed to eat. She took one of the bananas and tore open the peel. Taking one bite herself, she took the torch from William and gave him the rest of the banana.

She balanced the torch between her knees and reached inside William's hold-all. She needed to keep him warm and, at the moment, his feet, covered only in socks, were on the cold metal floor. Although, outside, it was not particularly chilly, the metal floor was sucking heat out of her and William, conducting it away. If only she had something to put between her bottom and the floor that would act as an insulator. A sheet of card board would have been perfect but there was no such thing in the box prison. Meanwhile, she found William's carpet slippers in his bag and put them on his feet. She also found his little dressing gown. She draped it round his shoulders for now, while he was busy eating his banana. She felt around in the bag some more and getting right down to the bottom, felt something she had not known was already in there when she had packed, in a panic, earlier in the evening. It was William's thermal huggy blanket. He had not used it for months; a hang-over from when she used to swaddle him at bedtimes, he had taken to carrying it around with him, like Linus from 'Peanuts'. However he had grown out of that particular habit about six months ago and the blanket had been forgotten, inside the sports bag. What a lucky break. It would provide a little bit of insulation, if she could just manage to spread it on the floor and sit on it. When William had finished his banana, she opened one of the chocolate bars and gave him four squares while she ate two, then she got him to stand up and hold the torch again, while she rolled over, onto her knees and spread the blanket on the floor. Not being able to move her hands apart made this was quite difficult but, eventually, it was spread and she rolled back onto her bottom, on top of it. It gave a small amount of relief from the intense cold of the metal floor.

She managed to liberate one of the water bottles from the plastic rings that held them together in a four pack, removed the plastic cap and, holding the bottle between her feet, pulled the plunger out to release the valve. She gave the bottle to William and he drank, thirstily. She had to stop him after a few mouthfuls because she did not know how long they would be in here. The woman had said 'a day or two', but that seemed pretty vague. She might have meant a week. Molly took one small sip herself, just to moisten her mouth, then pushed down the plunger to reseal the bottle, putting it back into the bag.

The torch had been on for about twenty minutes and the beam was losing its power. It needed to be wound again. Molly thought it a good idea to get William involved in this activity, to keep him occupied and to keep him moving and, therefore, warm. She showed him how the winding handle worked and, after a few false starts, he got the hang of it and rather enjoyed the activity, especially as the beam got brighter, the more he wound the handle.

Molly looked at her watch. It was seven in the evening, William's bed time. Keeping to some sort of routine, she knew, would help her little boy cope with this terrible ordeal, so she concluded he should 'go to bed' and set about getting him ready. She reasoned that his fleecy pyjamas would be warmest next to his skin, so she sat him in her lap, removed his top clothes and put his pj's on, then replaced his clothes, over the top. The next part of her hastily devised plan was going to be tricky. She figured that the sports bag itself would make a sort of sleeping bag for William. He would fit into it, just about, curled up in the foetal position, but she did not know how he would take to being put into a bag. Making it seem like a game was the option most likely to succeed. Taking out the story book, 'Where the Wild Things Are', Molly gave William the book to hold, in his outstretched arms, while she held the torch and read the story, with all the sound effects, as she normally did. When the story was finished, Molly prompted William to turn to the page with the picture of the boat.

'William, would you like to sail away in a little boat, just like Max?' Molly asked.

William nodded, a little warily, as this was a new game to him.

'Here, Will, this is going to be your boat,' she said, shining the torch into the bag. 'Let's make it cosy, first,' she explained, as she spread his spare clothes out on the bottom, for insulation. She then wrapped his dressing gown round him, made sure he had his Snoopy dog under his arm, and encouraged him to climb into the bag and curl up inside. She spread William's warm winter coat over him like a blanket and zipped the bag two-thirds up, leaving a 'breathing hole', at the end by his head. Following the order of the nightly routine, Molly said,

'Say night night to daddy, William,' almost choking on the reaction that this phrase provoked in her chest.

'Where daddy?' asked William, in a voice that also held evidence of tears.

'Don't cry, baby. Daddy will come soon,' Molly said, hoping against hope that this prophesy would come true. She pulled the bag close to her, curled up on the blanket, switched off the torch and, closing her eyes, tried to sleep.

ooOoo

At the end of his daytime shift at St Mary's A and E, John Watson changed out of his hospital blues and back into his civilian clothes. Putting his hand into his jacket pocket, he took out his mobile phone and switched it back on. He saw he had two texts and a voice mail from Sherlock. That was unusual. Sherlock never phoned – well, rarely, at least – so this aroused his interest. He opened the first text and had to read it twice, it was so shocking. It read'

'Molly and Will kidnapped. Call me.' He did not bother to read the second text. He switched to phone and pressed Sherlock's speed dial icon. He answered straight away, sounding tense and not a little panicky.

'They're gone, John. She took them!'

'Where are you?' John asked, getting straight to the point

'I'm on my way to the Isle of Dogs, East India Dock Basin. It's the place they were last known to be,' Sherlock explained.

'Bloody hell, it's going to take me at least an hour to get there at this time of day. I'm at St Mary's,' John replied.

'Just come, John, please,' Sherlock implored.

'Hey, no sweat, of course, I'll come. Just hang in there, OK? And don't do anything stupid, before I get there, yeah?'

'Thank you, John,' Sherlock replied. 'I'll try not to.' He broke the connection.

John Watson ran through the hospital and out through the front entrance, hailing a cab, as soon as he hit the pavement. He gave the cabby his destination and then got on the phone to Mary, to tell her what was going on. After speaking to her, he dialled Mycroft's number to get the full story, including the identity of 'she'.

Sherlock sat in the back of Mycroft's car, as it drove along the A13, towards the Isle of Dogs and East India Dock Basin. He was trying to marshal his thoughts, organise his brain, but he kept hitting a blank wall. 'Fear is the mind killer' – that famous quote from Frank Herbert kept running through his mind, like a loop of tape on a reel-to-reel, blocking out all coherent thought. He could not get that stupid phrase out of his head. He leaned forward, dropping his head into his hands, and rubbed at his scalp with his fingertips, as if he might be able to scrub the intruding thought away, but it just would not go. He leaned back on the leather head rest, closing his eyes.

'How much longer?' he asked the driver.

'In this traffic, sir, about twenty minutes,' the man replied, with due deference in his tone, not only because this was his boss's brother but also because this man's family had been kidnapped at gun point by a vengeful woman. How ironic, he thought, that the very man to whom other people came to find their stolen relatives was now the victim of such a crime. Who could he turn to? Sherlock thudded his head against the head rest, in frustration and tried, for the dozenth time to employ a meditation technique to clear his mind but Frank Herbert would not vacate.

At long last, the car arrived at the East India Dock Basin, pulled off the road and drew to a halt, alongside other vehicles involved in the search for Molly and William. The Basin, once part of the East India Dock, the hub of the spice and tea trade for the British Empire during the Nineteenth Century and, later, of huge importance to the War Effort, during WW2, as the place where the Mulberry Harbours were constructed, for use in the D-Day landings in Normandy, had been mostly filled in, with the basin itself being transformed into a wildlife reserve. It was a quiet spot, isolated, frequented only by bird-watchers and dog walkers. It was the perfect spot to dump a pair of child's shoes, with little chance of the act being witnessed and no CCTV. Sherlock was shown to a taped off area, just off the road but near to the water, where there were tyre tracks. The width and spacing of the tracks suggested a medium sized van, similar to the sort favoured by White Van men the world over. The tracks were fresh – very clean, not scuffed or worn down. There was a single set of foot prints, leading from the position of the van to the water's edge and back again, which might indicate that someone had gotten out of the driver's side door, gone to throw something into the water and then returned to the vehicle. Based on this premise, there were police divers, from the Port of London police, based at Tilbury Docks, preparing to enter the water to begin a search for the missing shoes.

Sherlock stood, surveying the scene, trying to recreate in his mind what might have transpired here. If the shoes were found, it would prove that the kidnapper stopped here to dispose of them. It did not prove, however, that these tyre tracks belonged to the kidnap vehicle. If the shoes could be retrieved relatively quickly, there may be trace evidence on them that might be of some use but the longer they remained in the water, the more such evidence would degrade. But this was the only lead they had. It was nearly dark. He was not sure how useful a dive would be in the dark. He suspected that the divers would only search the shallows tonight and would probably defer a deeper water dive until the morning. This was feeling more and more like a dead end. He made a decision, took out his iPhone and called John.

'Where abouts are you?' he asked. John consulted the cabby,

'Stepney,' he replied.

'Look, John, I'm coming back. There's nothing to be gained here. Tell your cabby to drop you at a café – I don't suppose you've had supper – and we'll pick you up on the way.' He cut off the call, walked back to the car and got in, grateful, at least, that his visit to this potential crime scene had evicted Frank Herbert and kick-started his brain. As the car pulled away, made a U-turn and headed back towards Central London, Sherlock texted D.I. Lestrade:

'Where is the suitcase?'

After a short interval, he received the reply:

'Molly's flat.'

Sherlock texted again:

'Keep it there. I need to see it.'

John sat in a café on the Commercial Road, just up from Limehouse, tucking into an all-day breakfast and taking large swigs from a mug of strong tea. When on an investigation with Sherlock, it was always wise to eat whenever the opportunity presented itself as one never knew when it might happen again, so he was making the most of this meal break. He was just sopping up the last of the egg yolk with a doorstep-sized slice of bread and butter when Sherlock appeared at the door of the café. John knocked back the last of his tea, as he stood up from the table, retrieved his jacket from the back of the chair and followed his friend out to the waiting car.

'How are you doing?' John asked, as the car pulled back into the stream of traffic and continued its journey.

'I want to have a look at the suitcase that woman brought with her. It's the only tangible piece of evidence we have, at the moment.'

Pulling up outside Molly's building, the scene was much calmer than it had been when Sherlock left it, over an hour ago. All the Secret Service vehicles had gone, to be replaced by one Met squad car and Lestrade's unmarked police car. As John and Sherlock walked up to the front door, Mycroft's car also departed. The two friends were admitted to the building by a uniformed police officer. The door to Molly's flat was propped open and they walked straight in. The suitcase that had been standing by the front door was now in the middle of Molly's sitting room and Lestrade was sitting in the arm chair, waiting for them.

'Has anyone touched it?' asked Sherlock.

'Mycroft's mob got to it before we were called in. It's been dusted for prints, and checked for explosives by Canine Division,' Lestrade reported, succinctly.

'And?' Sherlock asked, equally succinctly.

'Lots of dabs. If she's got form, we should know pretty soon. No explosives in the case. We've also had a tracker dog in. It would appear that both abductees walked out of the building and got into a vehicle parked two doors down.'

John gave Lestrade a sharp look, for his use of the term 'abductees' but Sherlock gave no sign that he had noticed the word. He was circling the suitcase, like a lone wolf circling its prey, then he knelt down, laid the suitcase on its base and pressed the button on the locking mechanism, lifted the metal plate that covered the zip pulls and unzipped the case, opening it out. It was full of used clothes of all kinds - men's, women's and children's - the sort sold in charity shops, the sort that people were constantly being asked to donate, via plastic sacks, pushed through their letter boxes. Though used, they were freshly laundered and neatly folded. That the kidnapper had never worn any of these clothes was obvious. They were just a prop. There was something about this collection of clothes that was speaking to him but he could not yet hear what it was saying. This is significant, he thought, but, try as he may, he could not see how, so he filed it away, for future consideration. He closed the case, righted it and moved it to one side.

'What do we have on the woman?' Sherlock asked.

'Absolutely zilch,' Lestrade admitted. 'Your brother has taken charge of that line of enquiry. Unless we get a match on the prints, there's nowhere else we can go but Mycroft, of course, has access to other sources, not just criminal records'

'Ok,' said John, 'so just to recap, we don't know what vehicle was used – though possibly some kind of commercial van; we know they were headed east, at least up to the time when the shoes were dumped; we know she is Moriarty's mother...'

'Allegedly,' Sherlock interjected. John looked at him, quizzically.

'We only have Molly's word for that. It hasn't been confirmed, so it can't be counted as a fact.'

'OK, we think she is Moriarty's mother and she has a gun - allegedly. Did I miss anything?' Lestrade shook his head.

'So, in other words, we've got sod all,' he concluded.

ooOoo

Back in his office, Mycroft sat with his elbows on his desk, fingers steepled under his chin, addressing his most senior aides, setting wheels in motion.

'We need to know this woman's name so get me a copy of James Moriarty's birth certificate. We must assume that she is resident in the Republic of Ireland, until we learn to the contrary. Send that full face image to every port of entry in mainland Britain. I want to know how and when she came in. Send it to motorway services, too, for comparison with CCTV records. Let's see if we can establish what she's driving. She may be travelling under an assumed name so see what names, if any, the ports come up with. Once we have a name, run it through all the car and van rental and sales records. What do we have on the jammer?'

'Still under analysis, sir, but we may have a manufacturer and a retailer quite soon. We are checking internet sites, as well as the usual sources.'

'Do we have a comparison of the partial footprint from the flat and the prints at the basin?'

'Still under analysis, sir.'

'Have the shoes been retrieved?'

'No, sir. The initial search was negative. They will resume in the morning.'

'Does anyone have anything to add?' No one spoke.

'Then, thank you, gentlemen – and lady. Keep me informed.' They all filed out, except for Anthea.

'Do you need anything, sir?' she asked.

'Divine intervention would be helpful,' he commented. 'Is my car back?' The answer was in the affirmative.

'Then I shall be at my club. Let me know if anything happens, please.'

ooOoo

Sgt Donovan came through to the sitting room, from the bedroom area.

'We're done here, now, sir, she said.

'OK. I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave, now, gentlemen,' Lestrade stood up and indicated the way out. Sherlock gave him a look of incredulity.

'I'm sorry, guys, but this is a crime scene and it must be sealed off.'

'Greg, Mycroft's people have been over this place with a fine tooth comb. Every last atom of evidence has been gathered, bagged, tagged and removed for further testing. How can you justify asking us to leave?' John demanded.

'Look, John, you know how it is at the moment. We have to do it by the book. I don't like it any more than you do. Please, don't make it harder than it is already,' Lestrade replied. John turned to his friend and said,

'Come on, mate. Let's get out of here.' He put his hand on Sherlock's arm and manoeuvred him out of the flat. Out in the street, he seemed at a loss as to what to do next so John took charge and steered him round the crescent to the main road, and hailed a passing cab. Neither spoke on the way back to Baker Street and, once inside the building, Sherlock went straight upstairs, whilst John knocked on Mrs Hudson's door, to break the news of the kidnapping to her. When John walked into Sherlock's sitting room, he was standing at the window, gazing out into the night.

'Where the hell are they, John? It's like they've just disappeared into thin air. How could we let this happen?' Sherlock had never felt so at a loss.

'Hard as this is going to be, Sherlock, we're just going to have to wait for her to contact us. She must have some demands. Why else would she have taken them? If she was just going to kill them, surely she would have done it in the flat or even outside the flat. She needn't have blagged her way in, need she? No, she will have some demands. They are hostages. And people who take hostages always have demands. She will call.' During this impassioned speech, Sherlock had turned to look at John and the two men now stared at one another until John turned away, went into the kitchen and put on the kettle. It was going to be a long night, so they would need sustenance.

John woke up with a stiff neck from sleeping in the chair all night. He looked round the room. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. Then he heard a noise from the stairwell and Sherlock appeared on the landing, carrying a bag of croissants, a bacon sandwich and a litre of milk, from the sandwich bar next door. Living alone had, it would seem, forced Sherlock to become at least partly domesticated. He took some plates out of a cupboard and, putting the food on them, placed them on the kitchen table. He then set about making a pot of coffee. John staggered into the kitchen, sat at the table and rubbed his fingers over his scalp. They were in the middle of breakfast when Sherlock's phone rang. It was Mycroft.

'I've emailed some information to you about Moriarty's mother. I've sent it to Lestrade, also. I take it there has been no contact?'

'None at all,' Sherlock replied.

'Well, look at what we have and then get back to me if anything occurs. The divers will have resumed at first light.' Mycroft closed the connection.

Sherlock booted up his laptop and opened the email. The first attachment was a PDF file of Moriarty's birth certificate. It stated his mother's name as Bernadette Jamieson. There was no father's name listed but his name was given as James Moriarty. The next attachment was a copy of a passport application, in the name of Bernadette Jamieson, dated five years previously. The photograph was clearly recognisable as the woman who had shown up at Molly's flat the day before. The next file was a CCTV image taken from a P and O ferry from Dublin to Liverpool, four weeks earlier, which showed Ms Jamieson boarding the ferry, in Dublin, as a foot passenger. Sherlock opened the next attachment. It was a CCTV image of the same woman getting out of a Ford Transit van at the Hilton Park service station, south bound, on the M6, near Birmingham. The image was black and white so the colour of the vehicle could not be determined and, although the vehicle registration plate was clearly visible, a note on the document stated that the plates were false. This particular plate was registered to a different make and model entirely. The final attachment was an MI5 document which showed a comparison of the foot prints found at the East India Dock Basin and a partial foot print taken from the Minton-tiled hallway in Molly's flat. They were a match

Sherlock sat back in his chair and moved his hands up to his mouth, in the prayer position, whilst he considered this information. So, she was, indeed, Moriarty's mother, had been living somewhere in the UK for a month and she had acquired her vehicle on the main land. She had been at the basin, the day before and had, in all likelihood, thrown William's shoes into the water there. Unfortunately, all this simply confirmed what they already knew. It did not provide any new information, other than her name but there were no guarantees that she was still using that name so this may or may not be useful. However, Mycroft had noted in the main body of the email that they were circulating her photograph to all hotels, motels and letting agencies in the London area. Someone might recognise her. As Sherlock and John mulled over this data, Sherlock's text alert sounded. He opened his message box and read the text.

'Sleep well, Mr Holmes?' The number was withheld. He showed it to John, who, having read the text, took out his own mobile and called Lestrade.

'She's made contact,' he said. After a short pause, whilst he listened to the reply, he said, OK, and cut the call.

'He says to come to the Yard.'

ooOoo


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven**

Molly awoke, feeling cold and stiff, having spent a very uncomfortable night of broken sleep, in the metal shed. In the small hours, William had woken up, needing the toilet. Their captor had not thought to provide any sanitary provision, so Molly had scooted across the floor to the front of the prison, with William in her lap and then helped him to take a pee in the corner. She could tell by the strong odour of the urine that her little boy was already a little dehydrated so, when they had made their way back to their original position, she gave him the rest of the water in the first bottle to drink, just taking another small swig for herself. She had then put him back in the hold-all and sung to him until he went back to sleep She needed to try and warm herself. The scooting about on the floor had helped, though the pain caused by the cable ties was almost unbearable, but as soon as she lay down again, the cold began to seep back into her very bones. She lay on her side, in the foetal position and practised some dynamic tension, tensing and relaxing all her muscles, to try to generate some heat. It worked, to a degree, but it was physically tiring and it made her feel thirsty so, after about five minutes, she had to stop. She closed her eyes and, eventually, fell asleep from sheer exhaustion.

She turned on the torch and looked at her watch. It was nine in the morning. She lay still, listening for any sounds at all from outside but could hear nothing. She wondered if it was worthwhile banging on the walls of her jail, to try and attract someone's attention and decided she might make a game of this for William, once he was awake. She didn't want to start banging now, as she knew it would alarm him. She closed her eyes again and tried not to think about what the woman intended to do with them.

ooOoo

John and Sherlock walked into Lestrade's department at New Scotland Yard. All the officers on the Serious Crime team watched Sherlock as he went by. Some of the squad were new, posted since three years previously, so only knew him by reputation and, needless to say, he had received mixed reviews. He, for his part, seemed oblivious to the stares but John, feeling aggrieved on his behalf, returned some of them with warning glares. After exchanging brief greetings, Lestrade got down to business.

'Show me the message.'

Sherlock opened it up and handed his phone to the DI. After glancing at it, Lestrade called over an officer whom John did not recognise.

'See what you can do with this,' he said and passed the phone to the new man, who took it back to his work station.

'Right, let's bring you up to speed,' Lestrade began, gesturing to two chairs adjacent to his desk, inviting John and Sherlock to sit. John accepted. Sherlock walked over to the window and looked out at the building opposite, remembering the message written there, three and a half years ago, by the master criminal and well-known psychopath, his arch-Nemesis, Moriarty. Who could have guessed that he would come back to bite him, from beyond the grave, after all Sherlock had gone through to avoid this very scenario? Lestrade was talking; he needed to listen.

'We ran the finger prints – absolutely no form at all. Once we got the name from Mycroft, we contacted the Garda in Dublin and they ran a check. She is completely clean, not even a parking ticket. They gave us an address. She lives in a little village, just outside Dublin. Nice house in a nice area. Moriarty was clearly a good son to his mum. Regular attendee at the local church, Women's Institute, you name it, she is Mrs Pillar of the Community. However, she is clearly not as innocent as she appears because she has managed to get her hands on a gun from somewhere and we are guessing she did not bring it through Customs, so she must have sourced it here. Similarly, with the jammer device – we just received this through from Mycroft's tech guys.' He showed John a print out about the device that had blocked the Wi-Fi, radio and mobile phone signals in and around Molly's flat.

'It's similar in design and function to the kind of system used by factories, shops and schools to block the use of mobile and smart phones on their premises but this is clearly intended for illicit use. Not the sort of thing you can buy down at your local Curry's.'

'Then there are the false plates on the van. You can't just walk into any old scrap yard and buy old plates, or get them made without evidence that you own the vehicle they are registered to. So, it leads me to suspect that Mr Moriarty was a bit of a chip off the old block.'

'She's been in the UK for a month. Have there been any sightings since the motorway services?' John asked.

'Nothing, so far. We have run those plates through traffic camera records but they haven't shown up, which makes me think she has changed them again. She is covering her tracks very well.' Just then, Sgt Donovan arrived, carrying a tray of coffees. She put two on the desk for Lestrade and John then walked over to Sherlock and offered the last one to him. He looked at her, rather surprised. She gave a little shrug and a small grimace and, as he took the proffered mug, she patted his arm. It would seem even Sally Donovan had a heart somewhere. The young officer returned with the phone and Lestrade gave him a questioning look.

'We have a number but it is an unregistered PAYG, with an Irish international code. We can get a fix on where it was last used but it will take time and, obviously, if she texts again, we can try to trace it but it would be more likely to succeed if she called,' he completed his report.

'OK, do what you can,' Lestrade instructed. The officer turned and held out Sherlock's phone towards him. Sherlock took it, with a nod of thanks.

'She probably won't use that phone again. She'll have anticipated our actions. She's planned this very carefully and isn't likely to make such a basic error,' Sherlock informed them from his place by the window.

'What's next, then?' John asked.

'The photo and the name are still circulating around hotels, guest houses and letting agencies; car hire companies in Liverpool, especially round the docks; and shops and public places in Poplar and the Isle of Dogs, as well as in the vicinity of Molly's flat, to see if anyone recognises her or it. Likelihood is, she is using a false name now. We haven't involved the media yet. We don't want to panic her into doing something stupid. Other than that, we just have to wait for her to make contact again. Traffic cameras are still on alert for the number plate, just in case it's still in use.' There seemed little more that could be done. John looked at his watch, got up and walked over to Sherlock.

'Look, I'm sorry, mate, but I really have got to go to work.' Sherlock nodded. 'I'll keep my phone on silent in my pocket. If anything happens, call, OK?' Sherlock nodded again. John clapped him on the shoulder, nodded to Lestrade and left.

Sherlock stood by the window a little longer, sipping his coffee and wracking his brains. In the old days, he would have been straight on to the Homeless Network but, after being 'dead' for three years or more, he wondered if there still was a Homeless Network. Only one way to find out, he decided, turning and putting down his mug on Lestrade's desk. He would go to some of the old haunts and see whether any of the old faces were still around. He walked out of the office, without saying 'goodbye'. Lestrade watched him go and didn't even bother to ask where he was going. He probably wouldn't give a straight answer.

ooOoo

William had woken up, eventually, and climbed out of the bag, feeling around in the dark and calling for his mummy. Molly awoke from her light sleep and, finding the torch on the blanket, switched on the beam. It was still quite strong so no need to wind it again, yet. She served William another banana and some chocolate for breakfast and, cracking open a second bottle of water, poured half the contents into the empty bottle from the night before. If she was going to ration the water, it would be best to do it scientifically; the better to keep tabs on how much was being consumed. She gave William one half-bottle to drink and, resealing the other, put it back in the Tesco bag. William was getting fractious. He was very dependent on routine and this was anything but. He was finding the darkness distressing, too, as it was depriving him of sensory stimulation. The lack of occupation was telling on his mood, also. Molly sat him in her lap and tried to engage him with finger rhymes and other nursery games but there were only so many times one could go 'round and round the garden, like a teddy bear,' before it lost its appeal. She sang to him, rocking him, as she had when he was a baby, suffering from colic and needing the physical comfort of the warmth of her body to ease the vicious cramps in his tiny tummy. He responded by putting his thumb into his mouth, grasping his ear lobe with thumb and finger of his free hand and cuddling into her, regressing right back to those early days of his life on this earth.

ooOoo

Sherlock exited New Scotland Yard and walked along Vitoria Street, across Westminster Bridge and along the South Bank, past County Hall and the London Eye, to Waterloo Bridge. He scrutinised the faces of all the homeless people he spotted along the way but recognised none of them. Significantly, they did not seem to recognise him, either. On reaching the British Film Institute, he took a seat at an outside table at the riverside restaurant and ordered a double espresso. As he sat, inhaling the aroma of his coffee and scanning the passing crowds for a familiar face, he spotted a girl standing by the parapet which bounded the path and separated it from the river. He knew her and he could see that she knew him. He finished his coffee, left the money on the table and strolled, nonchalantly, across to lean on the parapet and look down onto the foreshore – stranded now, as it was low water on this tidal river. The girl sidled up to him, leaving a person-sized gap between them, so as not to appear too obvious.

'Bloody hell, Mr Holmes, we all thought you were dead, 'til we saw the newspapers, the other week, of course,' she muttered, gazing up river.

'It's good to see a friendly face,' he replied, looking across the water, towards the Savoy Pier. 'I need your help.'

'Always happy to oblige', she responded. He reached into his pocket and removed the folded bank note he had prepared earlier, which concealed a copy of the full face image of Bernadette Jamieson. 'I need to find this woman, urgently. Two people's lives depend on it.' He turned to look directly at the girl.

'Got any spare change, sir?' she asked.

'Sure,' he replied and pressed the folded note into her out-stretched hand.

'God bless you, guvnor,' she smiled. He pushed off the wall and strolled away, towards and up onto the bridge, where he hailed a cab to take him home.

As he let himself in to 221 Baker Street, Mrs Hudson met him in the hall way.

'Any news, dear?' she asked, full of concern.

'You'd be the first to know,' he replied.

'I've left some sandwiches in you fridge. You make sure you eat them,' she told him, then reached up and caught him in a big hug. He hadn't even realised, until that moment, just how much he needed a big hug. He put his arms around her and hugged her back, feeling like a small child.

Upstairs, he stood at the window, eating the sandwiches out of loyalty to the lady who had thought to make them, and reflecting on the current situation. He rarely questioned his own judgement but this was one occasion when he wished he had been wrong about something. He had always believed that love was a dangerous emotion and parental love, it would seem, was the most dangerous of all, effectively paralysing his logic function at the very time he needed to be at his most incisive. He could only hope that everyone else involved in the hunt was on top of their game.

ooOoo

Molly was facing a second night in her black prison. The day had been bad enough. The hours had dragged on and on. She had scooted on her backside to the front of the box and listened at the door for any sound of human activity, to no avail. Where ever this place was, it was not a well-populated location. On the off-chance, she had taken off her shoes and, giving one to William, she had banged the shoe on the side of the box, encouraging him to join in. The box had amplified the sound, like being inside a drum, which had made William drop the shoe and hold his hands over his ears, screaming. It had taken a long time to calm him and almost as long to find her missing shoe, in the dark. It was getting more difficult to persuade William to eat the banana and chocolate diet. He kept pushing it away and crying. In the end, she gave up and ate it herself. She was feeling light headed from lack of food but eating this food made her feel nauseous because of the tension in her stomach. The thing they both wanted most was water but that was the one thing she had to withhold. William had already drunk half of their supply of water and they had only been here for one day. He kept asking for more, and cried piteously when she had to deny him. When she eventually managed to get William to sleep, she curled up on her now filthy blanket and shook with sobs, as quietly as she could.

She knew she was beginning to show signs of dehydration. Her skin felt dry and papery, her mouth and lips were parched, she had pains in her back, in the region of her kidneys and her bladder was beginning to burn. And although she sobbed, her eyes were dry and sore. She felt weak, lethargic and light-headed. She knew her blood pressure was dropping due to loss of fluid content. She had to drink but she dared not take more than a few sips of water. William needed the water. Even as she thought this she could see the gap in her logic. If she became incapacitated, due to dehydration, he would not be able to look after himself so she owed it to him to keep as healthy as possible but she feared running out of water altogether, so she stuck to her resolve, even whilst knowing it could be a serious error of judgement. The persistent cold and her inability to move around were taking their toll too. Her joints and muscles ached and she felt so frigid she could not even shiver. Lying on the blanket which, now being damp, no longer seemed to offer any insulation from the heat-sapping metal floor, she was beginning to lose hope. She began to believe that the Moriarty woman had no intention of ever coming back for them; that she was going to leave them here to die.

ooOoo

John finished his shift at St. Mary's and speed dialled Sherlock's iPhone. His friend answered immediately.

'Any news?' he asked.

'They found the shoes,' Sherlock reported. 'They fished them up this afternoon. They're being checked for trace but I'm pretty sure anything that might have been there will be degraded after 24 hours in the water. And the phone was last used in South Ockenden so they are concentrating their attentions there, showing the photo and asking about the name, but nothing yet.' He sounded very despondent; he sounded like a danger night.

Oh, shit, thought John. He could only imagine what a state of nervous anxiety Sherlock might be in, after a day of such frustration and impotence.

'Look, man. I need to go home, change my clothes, and check in with Mary. Why don't you meet me there, have some supper. We can put our heads together; see if we've over-looked something.'

'I won't be good company, John.'

'Nobody's expecting you to be. It's got to be better than sitting in that flat, all on your own. Just meet me there.' John hung up before Sherlock could argue then rang Mary and told her to expect an extra guest for dinner. Sherlock exited 221 and was standing on the doorstep, looking up and down the street for a cab, when he saw the girl from the South Bank walking down the pavement towards him. He walked along to meet her and she reached out and put into his hand the bank note he had given her that morning.

'What's this?' he asked.

'I'm sorry, Mr Holmes, but nobody has seen hide nor hair of her. The woman must be invisible. I can't take your money,' she explained. Sherlock pressed the note back into her hand.

'I don't do payment by results, only by effort,' he told her. 'Please keep looking.'

She nodded and walked on.

Sherlock, John and Mary spent the evening brainstorming possible lines of enquiry but could not come up with anything new. John was convinced the kidnapper was stalling deliberately, to ramp up the tension.

'She'll make contact again,' he insisted.

Having demolished two bottles of wine between them, during the course of the evening, it was decided that Sherlock stay the night in the spare room and they all retired around midnight. At around six the next morning, Sherlock was awoken, from a disturbed night of little sleep, by the text alert on his phone. It was her again.

'Not sleeping so well then, Mr Holmes,' it read. The number was blocked, as before. He got up, redressed and slipped out of the flat without disturbing his hosts. He would have time to go home, shower and change before returning to the Yard to have the text traced.

ooOoo

William was awake and crying but Molly could not find the strength to sit up. She called his name in a dry croak and he climbed out of the bag and came to her.

'Get the food bag, baby,' she rasped. She felt the torch under her ribs and, pulling it out, switched it on. The beam was not bright but strong enough to show William where the Tesco bag was. He brought the bag to her, much lighter, as half the water and food was gone now. Molly felt inside the bag and pulled out the water, cracked open one bottle and gave it to William. She opened the other bottle, too, and sucked at the spout, taking three big mouthfuls but she feared it was too little too late. It barely seemed to scratch the surface of her thirst. She did not stop William drinking – she didn't have the strength – so he polished off nearly all the contents of the bottle without even pausing for breath. Having slaked his thirst, he was far more amenable to eating and felt in the bag until he found the last banana. He held it towards Molly, saying,

'Open, Mummy, please.' Molly took the banana in her hands and broke open the peel, then William took it from her and ate it, slowly. Molly took up the torch and, holding it between both palms, wound up the mechanism, as she had before. The beam grew in strength as she did so and provided at least some illumination, enough for her to see her son's face. It was covered in dirt and streaked with tear stains, making him look like a little urchin from a Dickens novel. Nothing that had ever happened in his short life could have prepared him to cope with this nightmare situation. She wondered what long-lasting effects all this may have on him but then she wondered whether there would be any long-lasting anything and she had to cut off that line of thought before it over-whelmed her. William reached inside the bag and took out a bar of chocolate. Picking off the outer wrapper, he bit a chunk off, then took it out of his mouth and pushed it at Molly's chin.

'Mummy eat it,' he encouraged her. She opened her lips and took the chocolate into her mouth, where it melted slowly and trickled back out, pooling on the blanket. Her throat was too dry to swallow and the chocolate felt thick and glutinous in her mouth. She drifted out of consciousness whilst William ate his chocolate and sat beside her, like a faithful puppy.

ooOoo

Sherlock handed his phone to the young officer and sat down to wait for him to perform his technological wizardry. A young PC brought the coffee today and Sherlock drank it gratefully, having slept very badly and had no breakfast. Lestrade was busy on another case but took the time to appraise Sherlock about the report they had received that morning about the shoes retrieved from the basin.

'There were a lot of fibres stuck in the tread.'

'What sort of fibres?' Sherlock asked.

'All sorts – wool, cotton, acrylic, you name it,' was the reply.

'Carpet fibres?' Sherlock enquired.

'No, too fine. Clothing, we think,' Lestrade concluded.

'Clothing – like the suitcase?' Sherlock mused. He felt more than ever that the suitcase was a clue but he still couldn't work out its significance.

The young officer was back with the phone again.

'It's a different number to yesterday but again, unregistered PAYG with a Republic of Ireland international dialling code. We are working on the location, sir,' he explained, apologetically, and handed Sherlock back his phone.

'She's good at this hide and seek business, I'll say that, the old bitch,' Lestrade spat, angry and frustrated.

ooOoo

Molly was roused from her stupor by the loud, metallic, grinding sound of the doors to her prison opening. The light that flooded in was painful, even through closed eyelids. William turned away from the glare and buried his face in her shoulder.

'Well, Miss Hooper, you're not looking too good, if you don't mind my saying. Ah, don't tell me, let me guess. You've been depriving yourself in favour of the wee man, so you have. Well, I might have known. I must commend you on your mothering instincts. That's something you and I have in common, isn't it? Wouldn't we both do anything for our children?' Molly could hear her words but they were not making much sense. She heard footsteps approaching, ringing on the metal floor. She tried to open her eyes and raise her head but she was just too weak.

'Well, you'll be pleased to hear that your little man is going on another adventure with his Auntie Bernadette,' the woman informed her. She reached down and caught hold of William by his upper left arm. He reacted, immediately. He went stiff and screamed at the top of his lungs. As she tried to pull him away from Molly, he clung on to her coat lapels, with a fierce tenacity, screaming,

'No! No! Mummy! No!'

Molly tried to muster enough energy to lift her arms and fend the woman off but she was pinned to the floor by the weight of William's frantic little body.

The woman tried to peel William's fingers off his mother's coat but he just gripped tighter, with a strength enhanced by desperation and terror. Losing patience, the woman grabbed him by his dressing gown collar and shook him violently. William was shocked into paralysis by this unprecedented assault on his person and he stopped screaming abruptly and went completely limp. The woman then picked him up and carried him out of the shed, contemptuous of Molly's frail attempts to reach out towards him. Having secured William in the front of the van, she returned to Molly's side.

'Ahl, Miss Hooper, it has been a pleasure meeting you. I only wish it could have been in different circumstances but, sadly, that was not to be. I don't think you will be needing these, any more,' she said, picking up the Tesco bag, 'or these,' picking up the hold-all, and she went out, again, to stow the two items in the back of the van. This time, when she returned, she was carrying a smart phone. She squatted down on the floor and took a couple of photographs of Molly and it was as she did this that she noticed the filthy blanket, laid under her.

'Oh, Miss Hooper! Now that's cheating!' she said, in a parody of mirth. She caught hold of the end of the blanket and pulled it, roughly, out from under Molly's recumbent body. It took a couple of tugs but, eventually, it was free, leaving Molly lying directly on the cold metal floor. As the blanket came free, the wind-up torch flew across the shed and hit the side wall, propelled by the force of the release.

'Goodbye, Miss Hooper,' she said, walking out of the shed, retrieving the torch as she went. The doors clanged shut, leaving Molly alone and barely conscious.

ooOoo

Sherlock was in a cab, on his way back to Baker Street, when his text alert sounded. Taking out his phone, he opened up the text, which consisted of a single image of Molly, lying curled on her side, on a bare floor. The lighting was poor and the image grainy but it was most definitely Molly and she looked to be unconscious. The text read,

'Do you love your woman, Mr Holmes?'

Sherlock immediately told the cabby to turn around and take him back to the Yard, then he rang John's number. John answered almost straight away.

'She's sent me a photo of Molly,' Sherlock said, his voice staccato and clipped, like he was having trouble breathing.

'Where are you now?' John asked.

'In a cab, on my way back to Lestrade,' Sherlock answered.

'I'll meet you there,' John stated and broke the connection.

Half an hour later, all three men sat in Lestrade's office, in a heightened state of readiness. They all felt that the main event was about to begin. They were just waiting for the starting pistol to fire.

ooOoo


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: Many thanks to everyone who has been kind enough to 'Favourite' or 'Follow' my story and extra thanks to those who have taken the trouble to write a review, especially johnsarmylady, patemalah21, and Rocking the Redhead, who have reviewed just about every chapter! **

**Chapter Twelve**

Sherlock's iPhone rang out. He switched it straight to speaker and said,

'Sherlock Holmes.'

'Do you love your son, Mr Holmes?' The voice was distorted, disguised, filtered through some electronic process to render it unrecognisable. It could not even be identified as male or female, but Sherlock thought he detected a hint of a Dublin accent and was in no doubt as to the identity of the caller.

'I will not dignify that question with an answer,' he stated, acid in his tone.

'Then I imagine you would be willing to do anything in order to secure his freedom,' the caller retorted.

'How do I know you really have him?' Sherlock challenged. Almost immediately, his phone beeped and he saw he had a text. He flicked over to 'Message' to open the text and saw a photo of William's face, gazing into the camera lens, his eyes luminous with unshed tears, staring from a very grubby face, stained by the tracks of tears previously shed. Sherlock had to fight hard to keep all emotion out of his voice.

'What did you have in mind?' he asked.

'I'm willing to consider an exchange,' came the reply.

'I'm listening,' Sherlock countered.

'I'm sending you a map reference, Mr Holmes. You will come there and I will exchange your son for you,' the voice continued.

'I see a fatal flaw in your plan already,' Sherlock replied, increasing the acidity still more. 'Do you expect my two year old to find his way home on his own?'

'If you will allow me to continue, Mr Holmes, I will explain how this exchange is to go down.' The voice sounded a little agitated, now. Sherlock waited in silence for the explanation.

'Your associate, Dr Watson, will accompany you to the meeting place and he will take responsibility for the child. You will come with me. Do you approve this arrangement?' the voice enquired.

'I hardly think the word 'approve' appropriate but I do accept your terms,' Sherlock answered.

'Be warned, Mr Holmes. There is to be no police presence. At the first sign of any boys in blue, the meeting will be cancelled and you will not see your child again – alive, at least.'

'Send the map reference,' Sherlock snapped and closed the connection.

The silence in the room broke into flurried activity. The officers who had been attempting to trace the call began furiously tapping the keys of their computers, Sgt Donovan began speaking urgently into her phone, DI Lestrade turned to Sherlock and John, shaking his head, about to launch into a strong argument against agreeing to the meet but Sherlock silenced him with a glare. He was going to keep this appointment. At that moment, the text alert sounded again on his phone and he opened the message. A grid reference appeared in the message box, followed by the words 'Come at once'.

ooOoo

John and Sherlock sat side by side in the back of the black cab, Sherlock gazing out of the window at the passing scenery, John glancing repeatedly at his friend, worry etched in every line of his face.

'You do realise that this is a trap, don't you, Sherlock?' John finally blurted out.

'Of course,' Sherlock replied and lapsed back into silent contemplation of the scenic beauty of the A1089, approaching Tilbury Docks. The taxi slowed and turned right off Ferry Road, into a seemingly derelict industrial estate. On either side of the unnamed road were empty warehouses, decrepit buildings, falling into deeper decay, a 'brown field' site, as beloved by property developers everywhere, sitting silent and dark, just waiting to be bought up and redeveloped into stylish homes, out of town shopping centres or leisure parks. With the current recession, this one would probably have a long wait. The cab pulled up outside a large warehouse.

'You sure this is the place, gents?' the cabby asked, dubiously.

Sherlock was already out of the cab, as soon as it had stopped moving. John assured the cabby that this was the place, paid him the hefty fare and thanked him for his trouble, advising the man that he did not need to wait, and alighted from the cab himself. As the vehicle disappeared back the way it had come, Sherlock and John were left in the gathering gloom of the early evening. Even as the red tail lights of the departing cab disappeared from view, Sherlock's text alert sounded.

'Here at last,' it read. 'Come inside, Mr H.'

The two men walked toward the enormous doors of the warehouse, designed to allow access for lorries and other large vehicles. They were securely locked but a pedestrian gate, set in the larger one, allowed them access. They stepped inside and paused so their eyes could adjust to the dim interior of the abandoned warehouse. Inside was a large open expanse, with a triple height ceiling, punctuated by shattered sky lights, which allowed a view of the early stars, just becoming visible in the darkening sky. The concrete floor was littered with the detritus of the building's former purpose, including abandoned forklift trucks and stacks of empty wooden pallets. In the gloomy recesses of the building, could be made out a sort of prefabricated shed, which, presumably, had been the nerve centre of this operation when it had been a thriving business. Sherlock's phone chirruped again. The message read, 'Dr Watson will wait by the doors. You will keep walking forward.'

Sherlock signalled for John to stay put whilst he continued to advance into the depths of the edifice. A movement by the 'office' caught his eye. A figure stepped out of the shadows, into view. It was a female form but it was not Molly. The person was holding William by the hand and the little boy trailed behind, confused and listless, passively accepting of whatever his fate might present. The gap between Sherlock and the kidnapper and her victim had closed to about forty yards when the woman suddenly called out,

'Stop there, Mr Holmes!'

Sherlock halted, noting that William's chin lifted slightly at the sound of his father's name.

'I'm going to send the child to you. You may say your goodbyes but don't take all day. Send him on to Dr Watson,' she barked. She released William's hand and gave him a push between his shoulders. He stepped forward under the volition of the push but then came to a halt, not sure what he was supposed to do. Sherlock went down on one knee and, spreading his arms wide, called,

'William! Come to daddy!'

The little boy began to run towards the sanctuary of his father's open arms. As he approached, Sherlock reached forward and scooped him up, pulling him into his chest, as a surge of emotion began to rise from the depths of his soul. But, even as he clasped the child to his heart, he noted a sharp movement as the woman's left arm came up, extended forward, with the glint of dull metal at its extremity. As Sherlock rose to his feet, holding William tight, he spun on his axis, to place his own body between the child and the woman. A gun shot sounded, amplified by the hollow interior of the building, causing his ears to ring. Almost instantly, he felt the impact of the bullet, hitting him between his shoulder blades with the force of a wrecking ball, hurling him forward. Even as he was thrown through the air, he twisted like a tumbler to land on his back, with the little boy on top of him. He hit the concrete ground so hard that stars exploded in his vision and he began to lose consciousness, though he fought, with every ounce of strength he possessed, to maintain control of all his faculties. As the sound of the shot roared in his ears, a second shot reverberated from the walls, floor and ceiling. The woman was hit in the right shoulder and spun, as she was thrown backwards, onto the ground. Then the scene erupted into motion as uniformed police seemed to pour in from every direction. Several officers, carrying assault rifles, converged on the recumbent form of the woman, kicking the gun away from the reach of her extended arm and taking aim, as they stood over her. Two plain clothed figures ran toward Sherlock, lying motionless, with his arms spread-eagled, but they were beaten, by a long stretch, by John Watson, who charged from the doorway, sliding to a halt, crouched over his fallen friend. Sherlock was not moving; his eyes were staring blankly at the ceiling above.

'Sherlock! Sherlock! Can you hear me?' he hissed, urgently, pressing his first and second finger tips to the pulse point on the carotid artery. There was a strong, rapid pulse. Sherlock began to gasp and cough, fighting for his breath, as William, clinging like a limpet to his father's chest, was bounced up and down by the wracking coughs. As DI Lestrade and Sgt Donovan reached Sherlock's side, John peeled William off his father and, with comforting words, held him close then passed him over to the woman police officer, who hugged him to her and rocked him, reassuringly. The double impact of the bullet and the hard floor had knocked all the air out of Sherlock's lungs and shocked his diaphragm into spasm, making it impossible to draw a breath but normal function was beginning to return. His ears were still ringing, and he could not hear what anyone was saying, but his vision was clearing and he could see John's lips moving. He reached out and caught hold of John's shoulder, trying to pull himself up to a sitting position, feeling exposed and vulnerable lying on the floor.

'Steady on, Rambo. You've just been whacked by a semi-automatic high velocity bullet and thrown about ten yards across a concrete floor. I'd stay down, if I were you. Thank God for Kevlar,' he added, as an aside, to DI Lestrade.

'Where's Molly?' Sherlock rasped. 'Have they found her?'

'Still searching,' Lestrade advised

The final whoop of an ambulance siren, announced the arrival of the first crew of paramedics, who were directed to attend to the kidnapper, still under armed guard on the other side of the building.

'Has she said anything? Ask her where Molly is!' Sherlock wheezed.

'Just as soon as we can,' Lestrade insisted. 'We can't interrogate her 'til she's had medical attention. Good shot, John, by the way. That distance in this light, I don't know how you did it but you managed to hit her clean in the shoulder, nowhere near any vital organs. You're a useful man to have around. But, please, let's keep it between ourselves that you carried and discharged an unlicensed weapon in a public place.'

'I don't know what you're talking about, Greg. Your marksman did a great job, tonight,' John replied, the very epitome of innocence.

Sherlock pushed John away and struggled to his feet. He removed his coat and jacket with difficulty, as his hands still shook in reaction to the physical shock his body had incurred. John helped him unfasten the Kevlar vest then insisted on inspecting the bullet's impact area, under his shirt. There was a large reddened patch on his upper back, which would become a very angry bruise over the next few hours.

'Where's William?' Sherlock asked, as he buttoned his coat back up.

'He's fine. He's with Sally. She's very good with children,' Lestrade added, at the look on Sherlock's face.

'The paramedics are giving him the once over,' John advised, 'and they need to see you, too. Come on.' He virtually dragged Sherlock over to the ambulance, where he sat, on the steps, and allowed the paramedics to check his vital signs and treat the large swelling on the back of his head, where it had struck the concrete floor with such force. Examinations complete, father and son were reunited.

'This baby should go to hospital. He is a little dehydrated and by the look and smell of him, he's had a bit of a rough few days. He could go into shock,' the lady in the fluorescent paramedic's jacket advised.

'Don't you have any Dioralyte?' Sherlock asked, rather abruptly. The woman nodded and took a sachet of powder out of a drawer, mixed it with water in a cup with a spout and gave it to Sherlock, to feed to his son, He looked into William's face, which had been wiped clean of the tear stains.

'You OK, Will?' Sherlock whispered. The little boy nodded and leant into his father's warm shoulder. Sherlock sat hugging his son, both wrapped in a shock blanket, whilst the Port of London and Met police, as participants in the joint operation, continued to search the area for Molly. When the ambulance had to leave, he transferred to Lestrade's unmarked police car.

ooOoo

After an hour, it was clear to Sherlock that Molly was not here. He knew they were wasting valuable time, now. All they had found was a blue Ford Transit van, the van shown in the photograph obtained from the Hilton Park Services CCTV, featuring Bernadette Jamieson. The rear compartment showed evidence of recent occupation, not the least being some lengths of twine attached to an internal strut and scuff marks where someone had apparently moved around on their knees on the floor. Sherlock was willing to bet these marks had been made by someone imprisoned in the van and that the person in question was Molly but she was not there now. Her image, from the photograph, was burned on his internal monitor. The longer it took to find the mother of his child, the less likely it was that the outcome would be favourable. He was tormented with frustration and fear for her welfare. Suddenly, he could stand it no longer. Getting out of the car, he strode over to Lestrade.

'We need to talk to that woman. She has to tell us where Molly is!' he growled, through gritted teeth.

'I need to talk to her, Sherlock, not 'we'. And there are rules about interrogating wounded prisoners. Any break with protocol and the evidence is inadmissible,' Lestrade insisted.

'And which is preferable,' Sherlock snarled, 'inadmissible evidence in a trial for kidnapping or admissible evidence in a murder trial? We don't have time for rules!'

Lestrade had to concede it was a valid point. He heaved a sigh of resignation and called Sally Donovan over.

'We need to go to the hospital, see if we can get anything out of Rosa Cleb,' he told her and waved to John to come, too, as they all climbed into his car.

John and Sherlock sat in the back seat of the police vehicle, Lestrade drove and Sgt Donovan rode shotgun, as they headed back along the A1089, away from Tilbury Docks and back towards the A13 and London. William sat straddling Sherlock's lap, with his arms around his father's chest, head resting against his rib cage, listening to the reassuring rhythm of his heartbeat. Eyes wide in the gloom of the car, he watched the light from the street lamps wax and wane. Sherlock rubbed his cheek against the top of William's head and breathing in the pungent scent of stale urine that pervaded his hair and clothes. Suddenly, William tensed. He pushed himself up from Sherlock's chest, gazing intently out of the side window of the moving car. He turned his face to look at Sherlock then turned back to the window and, raising his arm, pointing his out-stretched finger at the passing scenery. Sherlock looked in the direction of the child's pointing finger and saw that they were moving past a huge shipping container storage facility.

'What is it, William?' Sherlock asked.

'Mummy,' the little boy whimpered.

'Stop the car!' shouted Sherlock, urgently. 'Stop the car now!' Lestrade slammed on the breaks and steered to the curb, as following vehicles hooted angrily and veered wildly to avoid colliding with the rapidly decelerating police vehicle. As the car screeched to a halt, Lestrade looked at Sherlock in the rear view mirror.

'What the hell's the matter?' he demanded.

'She's over there. In the container park. There!' Sherlock barked.

'How can you possibly know that?' Lestrade retorted.

'William told me!'

'What? Sherlock, he's just a baby! How…' Lestrade began to protest.

'He's not just a baby, he's MY baby! He notices things. He works things out! Get us into that park!'

Lestrade was momentarily shocked by the vehemence of the detective's outburst but he recovered quickly and, pulling away from the curb, drove down to the container park turn off and up to the check point. He showed his warrant card to the security guard on duty and the man raised the barrier, admitting them.

'Pull in here!' Sherlock ordered, indicating a layby, just inside the entrance. The car had barely rolled to a stop when he opened the rear passenger door and jumped out, with William in his arms. He walked out into the middle of the road and a little away from the others, who were just climbing out of the vehicle now. He turned to his son, who sat in the crook of his arm.

'Which way, Will?' he asked, quietly, encouragingly. William pointed down the main road through the park and said,

'Down dere. Mummy down dere.'

Sherlock began to walk down the central route, stopping at every intersection and asking William which way. William would look around carefully, studying his surroundings, then point on down the road, so Sherlock would carry on walking in the same direction. John and Lestrade came hurrying after but the DI had to voice his scepticism again.

'What if this is a wild goose chase, Sherlock. Aren't we just wasting time?'

Sherlock rounded on him.

'This is not a wild goose chase. William says his mother is here. And he has been here before. He recognised it. Now, instead of really annoying me, why don't you go and ask that Security Guard to check the gate log and see if that blue ford transit has been in here at all during the last few days, huh?' John carefully manoeuvred himself between the other two men and laying a hand on Sherlock's arm, said,

'Come on, mate, just calm down. We're all on the same side, here.'

'Actually, Sally is doing just that, right now,' Lestrade muttered, defiantly.

Sherlock turned away and continued his walk down the road, even as Sally Donovan came running up to her boss, saying,

'It's a positive, sir. The van has been in and out of here several times during the last week, at least once a day, sometimes more. It's registered to a charity that collects used clothes to ship abroad to disaster areas. They own a number of containers stored in the park. Security gave me a list.'

Lestrade looked at the list of serial numbers and their locations.

'But these are all over the other side of the park. Sherlock, we're looking in the wrong place…..'

'You go and check them out, then.' Sherlock snarled, then muttered, 'If it'll keep you out of my way.' He walked on. John hurried after him and pulled him round by his elbow. Sherlock glared down at him but he pressed on anyway.

'Sherlock, you are staking a great deal on the testimony of a two year old child. Can you not see how irrational this looks?'

'I can see how it looks to you, John.' He said with exasperation. 'But, you know, when I was a kid, I noticed things, too, but nobody ever took me seriously. They never believed me or even gave me the benefit of the doubt. I remember what that felt like. It felt like shit and I'm not going to do that to him.' Again, he turned and walked on.

At the next junction, Sherlock stopped again. William, after a good look in all four possible directions, pointed to the right and Sherlock moved off that way. Sally Donovan had been busy mustering the troops and there were several police vehicles manoeuvring round the container park, as Sherlock and William travelled deeper in amongst the rows and rows of containers, stacked three high on all sides. They came to another junction and Sherlock stopped but William looked uncertain. He could not decide which way to go. There were so many containers and they all looked the same, except for the colours and the serial numbers written large, in black paint on their doors. William began to look distressed. Sherlock hugged him close and said,

'It's fine, Will, just fine. You've done a great job, so far. Now, listen to daddy. Can you remember the colour of the place where mummy is? What colour is it?'

William closed his eyes, just as Sherlock himself was wont to do when he visited his Mind Palace. John, who was still following the father and son, watched this display with a sense of foreboding. Was the world really ready for another Consulting Detective, especially one that was not even three years old? Then William opened his eyes and said.

'Red!'

'Red? Like this?' Sherlock pointed to a container nearby, showing red under the bright security lights of the park.

'Yes, like dat. Red,' William confirmed, then added, 'Mytoff Red.' The two men looked at the child, each wondering what this new piece of information could mean. What did Mycroft have to do with any of this? John turned as Lestrade approached.

'Anything?' he asked, referring to the containers, rented by the charity, that had been checked out on the other side of the park. Lestrade shook his head – all full of used clothes and nothing else.

Sherlock turned to Lestrade and said,

'We need back up. We need to search the whole of this section. Get some tracker dogs and Customs and Excise guys with those carbon dioxide detectors that they use to find illegal immigrants in the backs of lorries and tell them to concentrate on the red ones.'

'Look, Sherlock, this is a huge place, this park. It could take days to do a thorough search and we just don't have….'

This was one objection too far for Sherlock. He snapped.

'So stop wasting FUCKING time and call in some FUCKING back up!'

In all the time that Lestrade had known Holmes he had never heard him swear - ever, so it was particularly shocking to hear him shout these words right in his face.

John stepped in front of his friend and pushed him away from Lestrade.

'Ok, Sherlock, that's enough. You're frightening the baby.'

Sherlock looked into his son's wide staring eyes and felt instantly mortified. He hugged him close and whispered,

'I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry, so sorry.'

William wrapped his arms around his father's neck and said,

'Don't cry, daddy. Mummy come soon.'

John patted his friend's arm in a gesture of sympathy and wished he had the ability to sniff out carbon dioxide himself.

'We will find her, Sherlock,' he said.

'I know we'll find her, John, because I know she is here but will we find her in time?' Sherlock replied, his voice cracking with emotion.

John looked back up the road, in the direction that Lestrade had taken, following Sherlock's outburst. He saw a sleek black car gliding noiselessly towards them. It drew to a sedate halt and the chauffeur jumped out to open the rear passenger door so that Mycroft Holmes could step out. Friends in high places, thought John. We won't want for resources now. After a brief conflab with Lestrade, Mycroft came over to John and Sherlock and took charge of his brother. He took him and his nephew and installed them in the comfortable interior of the limo. After a short discussion with Sherlock, it was agreed that a car be sent for Mrs Hudson and that she should take William home to Molly's flat and get him fed, bathed and put to bed. In less than an hour, Mrs Hudson arrived and took the child, who had fallen asleep in his father's arms, away. Sherlock and Mycroft then sat in silence in the back of the plush car whilst John sat up front, next to the driver and they waited. Eight dog handler teams had arrived, in the meantime and spread out through the park, looking for evidence of human occupation, and the C and E guys were busy pushing their probes into all the red containers, extending out in a regular spiral pattern from the point where William had lost his bearings. It was just over an hour later still when a shout went up. John jumped from the car and ran off to find out what was happening. Within seconds he was back.

'They've found something,' he said.

Sherlock was out of the car and running towards the source of the consternation. He arrived at the large red container, just as they were swinging open the door, having sawn through the lock. Written in foot high characters on the door of the box was the serial number MY-65832. William had been right on both counts – Mycroft Red. One of the officers shone a torch into the dark interior and it illuminated a body, huddled in the far corner, wearing a camel coloured coat, her wrists and ankles bound with cable ties. Sherlock rushed inside and dropped down next to Molly. She felt icy cold – hypothermic. John was right behind him but pushed him out of the way and called for a light so that he could examine her properly. Her lips were dry and cracked, her skin papery, through extreme dehydration. She had a bruise on her right eyebrow and a cut which had trickled blood down her cheek but it had dried long since; a dark patch on her left cheek turned out to be a smear of chocolate; her wrists and ankles were chaffed raw by the cable ties. The ties could only be removed with sharp scissors, which John did not have, so they would have to stay in place for now. Other than that, so far as he could see, she had no obvious injuries, though the dehydration and hyperthermia were already more than enough. John called out for someone to summon the air ambulance. She needed to get to hospital as soon as possible. The biggest problem would be finding a convenient place to land. They needed to get her to a more open space.

Sherlock pulled off his coat and wrapped Molly in it then carried her, carefully, to Mycroft's car. He climbed in and sat on the back seat, cradling her in his arms. Mycroft flipped down the folding seat behind the driver and sat down whilst John flipped down the one on the passenger side and sat, too.

'She needs water,' John said, urgently, as the chauffeur began to drive back towards the entrance gates, smoothly and evenly, so as not to jar the fragile passenger inside. Mycroft reached across and opened a minibar in the armrest of the back seat, removed a bottle of spring water, unscrewed the lid and handed it to Sherlock, who tilted the bottle against Molly's parched lips. But they were so dry the water just ran off them and did not penetrate into her mouth. Sherlock thought for a brief moment, his eyes flicking from side to side in a rapid nystagmus, following his chain of thought, then he took a swig of water from the bottle, placed his mouth over hers, creating a seal, and let the water seep through his lips onto hers. She tasted of chocolate. As her lips slowly rehydrated, he used the tip of his tongue to prise them apart, so that the water trickled into her mouth and lubricated her tongue, which was stuck to her palate. The water seeped to the back of her throat and she swallowed convulsively. Her eyes flickered open, briefly and she looked into his face but without any sign of recognition, then they closed again. Taking another swig and then another and another, Sherlock fed Molly half the bottle of water, warmed to body temperature inside his own mouth, as the car moved toward the main road and the helicopter air ambulance could be seen and heard over-head, circling in order to land into the wind.

ooOoo


	13. Chapter 13

**Author's note: Just to reiterate, none of these wonderful characters belong to me but I love them so much I just have to write for them. Thanks to ACD, SM and MG for being geniuses. If I have borrowed their words, I can only say that 'imitation is the sincerest form of flattery'. I do this for fun, not for profit.**

**Many thanks again to all my faithful readers. You have no idea what it means to me to know you like my stories!**

**Chapter Thirteen**

Sherlock stood in the hospital room, over by the window, watching the nursing staff attend to Molly. She had been the centre of attention of several highly skilled health care professionals from the moment she had been placed in the care of the air ambulance crew, when it landed in the field opposite the main gates to the container storage facility. The paramedics had kept her wrapped in Sherlock's coat, as it had already created a cocoon of warmth around her. They cut off the cable ties and applied temporary dressings to the raw wounds caused by the constant chaffing. They attached a heart monitor, to detect any sign of hypothermia-induced dysrhythmia, which could lead to cardiac arrest. They put a cannula into a vein on the back of her hand - with some difficulty, since her veins had collapsed due to the dehydration - and put up a warmed saline drip to assist rehydration. Covered with shiny survival blankets and zipped into an arctic sleeping bag, they laid Molly on a mountain rescue stretcher, before transferring her to the helicopter. Sherlock sat in the bucket seat and watched the paramedics secure the stretcher and then strap themselves in, as the chopper rose and sped away, tilting its nose toward the ground as it gained height and speed. Less than ten minutes later, it landed on the helipad at the Royal London Hospital, at Whitechapel, where Molly was transferred to the care of the hospital trauma team, who whisked her away into the trauma department. Sherlock was allowed as far as the treatment room but was then diverted into the family room, which is where John and Mycroft found him, when they arrived by car, almost an hour later. John went off and cadged three mugs of tea from one of the nursing staff, Mycroft sat quietly in the family room, with his legs elegantly crossed and Sherlock paced restlessly up and down the corridor outside.

After what seemed an age, to Sherlock, the trauma doctor came out of the treatment room and approached the three men. He greeted John warmly, recognising him from various seminars they had both attended on Trauma Medicine, shook hands with Mycroft and eyed Sherlock warily, as they all gathered round to hear what he had to say. Sherlock's brain was whirring far too fast to take in everything the doctor said, most of which he dismissed as platitudes but, in essence, he gathered that Molly's condition was critical but stable. She had suffered extreme hypothermia and extreme dehydration, both of which conditions could be fatal. She was being treated with warmed, humidified oxygen, provided with heated intravenous saline, wrapped in warmed blankets and surrounded by heat lamps. She had not suffered cardiac or respiratory arrest but this had not been ruled out yet so she would require constant monitoring and intensive nursing, therefore she had been transferred to the ICU. In order to facilitate maximum healing potential, she had been placed in an induced coma for the time being.

John thanked his colleague for his time and efforts on Molly's behalf, then turned to his companions.

'There's nothing more to be done here tonight, guys. Can I suggest we all go home and try to get some sleep? We can come back tomorrow.' Mycroft nodded in agreement and prepared to leave but Sherlock said simply,

'No.'

'Sherlock, there's nothing to be gained by staying here. You have not slept properly for three nights that I know of and you won't be much use to her or William if you're suffering from sleep deprivation. Not even you can go this long without sleep and not suffer negative consequences,' John laid it on the line. But Sherlock was not to be deterred.

'I'm not leaving, John. You should go and you, too, Mycroft. You both have work tomorrow. I'm staying here, as long as it takes.' There was no reasoning with him so John asked one of the nursing staff to show him to where Molly had been transferred, then he and Mycroft left.

Sherlock sat in the easy chair, across from Molly's bed, silent, unmoving, except for his eyes, which either scanned the displays of the various pieces of machinery to which Molly was attached or focused on her face, which was mostly obscured by the oxygen mask, the dressing on her wounded brow and the thermal cap, designed to prevent heat loss through the scalp. She looked unimaginably small and frail, lying in the bed, swaddled in thermal blankets, her hands and feet wrapped to provide extra insulation for her extremities, the infrared heat lamps directed toward her. He had been given strict instructions not to make any loud or sudden noises as, in her fragile state, even the slightest shock to her system could bring about a cardiac arrest. But he hardly needed telling. He already knew the score. When the nurses came in, which they did at frequent intervals to check her vital signs and make various recordings or to replace the saline drip, Sherlock would retreat to the far side of the room and stand by the window, keeping out of their way, neither speaking to nor making eye contact with any of them, his face a frozen mask. When they left the room, he would return to the chair and continue his silent vigil. Around the nurses' station, apart from the progress of the patients themselves, he was the sole topic of conversation. They referred to him as 'The Avenging Angel', this intense and beautiful man. He was not like the usual concerned friend or relative. He never asked them how the patient was or asked any questions about her treatment. He sometimes looked at the chart to see what they had written, after they had left the room. He did not move around, or doze in the chair. He just sat and watched her. They speculated about his relationship with the patient. She was 'Miss' Hooper, so she wasn't his wife. They wondered what she had that could attract and hold such a man and they wondered why they did not seem to have it.

Eight hours after admission, the heat lamps were taken away and, over the next few hours, the thermal wrapping was reduced, to be replaced by standard hospital bed linen. John looked in around noon, prior to going to work at St Mary's and obtained an update from the junior registrar on duty. He passed on the information to Sherlock.

'Her core temperature is back to normal but she is still rehydrating. The toxins that built up in her system due to the dehydration are still being flushed. Ironically, the hypothermia probably prevented more damage from the dehydration as it slowed all her bodily functions, a bit like hibernation. They don't think she will have any lasting nerve damage in her fingers or toes, luckily. They caught them in time. Another few hours and it might have been a different story. They intend to keep her comatose for at least another day or two.' Sherlock received this information without giving any sign that he was even listening, though John knew him well enough to know that he had not missed a single nuance or implication of the information he had imparted.

'Sherlock, why don't you go home? Take a shower, change your clothes, at least?' Sherlock ignored him.

'Well, her mother and sister are on their way. Mycroft rang them. They caught the train this morning and he sent a car to meet them at the station. He's booked them into a hotel nearby for the duration of their stay, which is, at the moment, open-ended.'

This did elicit a reaction. Sherlock groaned inwardly at this news. He looked at John as though he had just admitted to a crime against humanity. He had no desire to confront Molly's family members under these circumstances. Molly had told him about her mother's reaction to the news of her pregnancy. He had no desire to meet that person at all.

'What time are they expected?' he asked, abruptly.

'Any time now,' John replied.

Sherlock stood up, picked up his coat, which had been returned to him by the trauma staff, the night before, and left the room. As he strode down the ward, past the nurses' station, towards the exit, several pairs of eyes followed him, with looks of awe and wonder. On the street, outside the hospital, he was about to hail a cab when a black 'Mycroft' car pulled up right outside the main hospital entrance and disgorge two women, who both bore a passing resemblance to Molly. Sherlock turned and walked briskly away, in the opposite direction.

Back at 221B Baker Street, he took a hot shower, shaved and put on clean, fresh clothes. He made some tea and toast and rang Mrs Hudson, on her mobile, at Molly's flat, to find out how William was. Mrs Hudson assured him that William had slept well, right through until lunch time; that he had eaten a good lunch and seemed none the worse for his terrifying ordeal but was really missing his mum. Sherlock said he would come over and see him before he returned to the hospital. When he arrived at Molly's flat, William was quite subdued but glad to see him. Sherlock told him how clever he had been to remember where Mummy was and he praised him for the brilliant clue – Mycroft Red. He sat cuddling William, talking to Mrs Hudson about Molly's condition and treatment, until about five in the afternoon, then kissed his son goodbye, to return to the hospital. Before he left, however, he arranged with Mrs Hudson that she should bring William to the hospital the next morning, to see his mother.

He was relieved to find, when he arrived back on the ICU, that Molly's mother and sister had left about an hour earlier. He checked the readings of Molly's machinery, read the progress chart, and then returned to sitting in the chair, drawn right up to the bed, now that the heat lamps had been removed. Molly looked exactly as she had before he left. He settled back into vigil mode. Several years ago, whilst a student at Cambridge, he had mastered the techniques of power napping and micro sleeps. He could fall asleep for a few seconds, so short a time that no one near him would even notice, but by using this technique, he could sustain himself for prolonged periods of time without proper sleep. He passed the night, alternating between five minute power naps and much shorter micro sleeps, and retreating to the window when the nurses came in to check on Molly's condition or administer treatments. However, he was fast approaching his own limit of five consecutive nights. He knew if he did not sleep properly soon, he would start to hallucinate. His body and brain were tired but his mind would not let him rest. He felt so responsible for Molly's predicament. He had put her and William in danger. He could not allow himself to rest until that danger had passed and she was still listed as 'critical'.

Next morning, the nurses asked him to step outside the room whilst they gave Molly a blanket bath. It was whilst he was standing in the communal area that his phone vibrated in his pocket. It was Mrs Hudson, texting to let him know she was just arriving at the hospital with William. He texted back for her to wait by the front entrance and he strode through the hospital corridors to meet them. William ran to him, as soon as he came into sight.

'Did they say it was alright to bring the baby into the hospital?' Mrs Hudson enquired.

'I didn't ask,' was Sherlock's terse reply. They returned to the ICU, the tall, enigmatic man with the beautiful face, carrying the equally beautiful child, followed by the elderly lady who, despite her smaller stature, seemed to have no difficulty in keeping up with the long-striding man. As they reached the nurses' station, the ward sister was about to raise an objection to the presence of the child but almost immediately changed her mind, knowing that it would be a useless gesture. The lady stopped by the station and Sherlock continued on, into Molly's room. She turned to the two nurses and the registrar, who were on duty at that time and asked,

'Has he had anything to eat or drink whilst he's been here?' They all shook their heads.

'Typical,' she declared, 'so busy taking care of everyone else, he never thinks about himself. One of you kind ladies wouldn't mind making him a nice big mug of tea, would you?' she asked, smiling beguilingly. 'White, two sugars?'

When Sherlock brought William into his mother's hospital room, he was somewhat relieved to see that Molly no longer had an oxygen mask over her face. Instead, she had two tubes which delivered oxygen to just below her nostrils. This did not look nearly so scary for the little boy. Sherlock stood by Molly's bed and explained to his son that his mummy was just asleep, that she needed to sleep to get better after being shut up in the container for such a long time. He showed William the displays on the life signs monitor and explained to him that this one was Mummy's heart rate, this one her breathing rate, this one her blood pressure, pointing out the piece of apparatus that collected the data from Molly and delivered it to the monitor machine. Then he sat on the chair, with William on his knee and let him hold Molly's hand, as it lay, inert, on the bed clothes. When Mrs Hudson came in with the large mug of steaming tea, she brought with her the story book that William had insisted on bringing to read to 'poorly Mummy'. It was the current favourite, 'Where the Wild Things Are'. Sherlock read the story, in between taking sips of tea, and William provided the sound effects, at the appropriate moments. When the story was over, William said goodbye to Molly, and Sherlock held him up so that he could kiss her on the cheek and give her a gentle hug, then carried him back to the front entrance of the hospital and saw him and Mrs Hudson safely into a cab home, before returning to the ICU. As he passed the nurses' station, he paused and turned his dazzling gaze on the three ladies gathered there.

'Thank you for the tea. It was much appreciated,' he said, in his velvet baritone voice, then continued back to Molly's bed side. As he disappeared through the door to Molly's room, the ward sister turned to her colleagues.

'Oh, my God,' she said, 'I think he just reversed my menopause.'

ooOoo

Sherlock resumed his silent vigil beside Molly's bed. He watched her face, looking for some sign of returning consciousness. He had read in her notes that the medical team had started to decrease the amount of soporific she was receiving, over-night. As the level of medication in her blood stream reduced, she should begin to surface. So far, there was no evidence of this. So he sat and waited, patiently, willing her to respond to his very thought waves, if only that were possible.

He suddenly became aware of a noise outside Molly's room and then the door was pushed open and two women entered. Sherlock jumped to his feet and the two women stopped in their tracks. They all stared at one another. Then John Watson appeared behind the women and smiled at him.

'Ah, Sherlock,' he said, genially, 'this is Molly's mum and her sister…'

'I know who they are,' replied Sherlock, abruptly, picked up his coat and, brushing past the startled women, disappeared through the door.

'How rude!' exclaimed Mrs Hooper, as she watched Sherlock's retreating back. 'Who on earth was that?'

'That is William's father,' John explained.

'Oh, so he's back on the scene, is he? Has he finally decided to take some responsibility for his actions rather than leaving it to his brother to do the decent thing?' Molly's mother continued. John felt rather indignant on his friend's behalf.

'Sherlock has been back in the country for a few months and has been seeing William regularly for all of that time,' he explained.

'Seeing William? And what about Molly? What has he been doing about her?' Mrs Hooper persisted.

'Molly and Sherlock are friends. They are sharing William's parenting,' John wondered why he felt he had to placate this woman. But then, she was William's grandmother so, he thought, she probably had a right to know the score and Molly clearly had not kept her in the loop.

'But is his brother still paying the bills?' Mrs Hooper asked, with an affronted look.

'The financial support that Mycroft put in place for William, as well as the purchase of the flat they live in, came from family resources, so it is just as much Sherlock's money as it is Mycroft's', John explained, beginning to feel annoyed with this woman.

'Family resources?' she asked, 'What, you mean like the Mafia?'

'Close enough,' John replied and walked over to the bed to review Molly's chart.

ooOoo

Sherlock caught a cab back to Baker Street and dived straight in the shower. He was privately quite grateful for the presence of Molly's relatives at her bedside, as it gave him a legitimate excuse to take a break. He was desperate for sleep. Coming out of the shower, wrapped only in a towel, he set the alarm on his iPhone for four in the afternoon and lay down on top of his bed. He was asleep almost instantly. The loud, persistent sound of the alarm eventually penetrated his dreams and he rolled over, groaning and rubbing his eyes. He was cold now, having managed to shed the towel in his sleep, so he was lying naked on top of the duvet. He sat up, reached out for his dressing gown and slipped it on, as he walked from the bedroom into the kitchen. Mrs Hudson had obviously been back to Baker Street since yesterday and had left some sandwiches, under cling film, in the fridge, with a note which read 'Eat me!' He made a strong pot of coffee and ate the sandwiches, gratefully. Then he shaved, dressed and left, once more, for the hospital.

He arrived back in Molly's room to find the consultant and his entourage holding court. He walked around to the far side of Molly's bed, removing his coat and scarf, and gave the doctor an enquiring look.

'Ah, Mr…'

'Holmes.'

'Mr Holmes, we believe that Miss Hooper may be regaining consciousness. Her vital signs would certainly indicate the same but she might benefit from a little external encouragement.'

'By that, I assume that you mean I should talk to her?' Sherlock replied.

'Quite so,' replied the consultant, clearly comfortable in the role of the stereo-typical senior doctor.

Sherlock sat down in the chair, took Molly's left hand in his left hand and placed his right hand, gently, on top of her head, stroking her temple with his thumb.

'Molly,' said the doctor, 'Miss Hooper, open your eyes.'

Molly was in a strange place. She had no idea how she got there and she did not know how long she had been there but she was trying to find her way out. Unfortunately, she seemed to always finish up exactly where she started. This was a weird world, made of nebulous wisps of cloud or white mist, that shifted and moved about, making it difficult to tell where you had been or where you were going. She heard a voice, calling her name. It was not a voice she recognised. Who are you, she wondered. I don't know you. Go away. She was looking for someone in particular. She was not sure who that was but she thought she would recognise them when she saw them, or maybe heard them.

'Molly, open your eyes.' That was the voice she was searching for! She moved towards that voice and tried to open her eyes but the light was so bright, she could not persuade her eyes to open.

'Turn off the lights and close the blinds,' Sherlock ordered. The nurse jumped to it. This man was not the sort that you asked to say 'please'. She drew the blinds, whilst the junior registrar turned the dimmer switch on the wall to lower the lights to a dull glow.

'Open your eyes, Molly Hooper,' said Sherlock, softly, right next to her ear. She turned her head slightly towards him and her eye lids fluttered open. He smiled at her and said,

'Awake, at last.' She tried to speak but her voice came out as a dry crackle. Sherlock reached for the glass of water that had been placed on the bedside cabinet, with a straw protruding from it. He placed the straw between her lips and she gave him a puzzled look.

'You have to suck,' he whispered. So she did. The water which entered her mouth and slid so sweetly down her throat was the coolest, most delicious thing she had ever tasted. She sucked again and a third time then let the straw slip from her mouth. Her eyes glazed over and her lids closed again. Sherlock looked at the consultant.

'That's a good start,' he said, reassuringly. 'It may take a while but I think she is coming back to us.' The registrar scribbled some notes on Molly's chart then the medical circus moved on to its next pitch, leaving Sherlock and Molly alone. Having replaced the glass of water on the cabinet, he stroked her cheek.

'Come back to me, Molly Hooper,' he whispered. She made no response.

ooOoo

Molly opened her eyes. She was in a room that she did not recognise. There was some sort of machinery over to her right that emitted a regular beeping noise, which she found rather annoying. She could feel something next to her left hand, which was lying at her side, on top of the bed clothes. She moved her fingers. It felt like hair but it wasn't William's hair. His was soft and downy. This hair was more wiry, thicker and longer. She ran her fingers through the hair and tried to raise her head to see what it was that she was touching. But her head felt heavy and she could not lift it up. However, her movements had disturbed whatever it was that was lying next to her hand because it moved. Sherlock opened his eyes and moved his head on the bed, where it was lying next to Molly's hand. He must have fallen asleep, resting his head on the bed, finally overcome by exhaustion. That four hour nap he had had in the afternoon had clearly only skimmed the surface of his need for sleep. He felt Molly's fingers combing through his hair and lifted his head, turning to look into her open eyes. She recognised him and gave a weak smile.

'Sherlock,' she croaked. He sat up and reached for the water. She moved her hand and croaked again,

'Sit me up, please.' He looked around for the control device that adjusted the bed, studied the display for a micro-second and pressed the appropriate button. The top third of the bed began to rise slowly. He allowed it to come up about six inches then stop.

'OK?' he asked. Molly nodded. He put down the control box and took up the water again, offering the straw to Molly, as before. She took a good few sips, then released the straw.

'Where's William? Is he safe?' she asked, suddenly concerned.

'He's absolutely fine. Mrs Hudson's taking care of him. He came to see you this morning,' Sherlock reassured her.

'I knew you'd find us,' she breathed.

'No, I didn't find you. I didn't have a clue where you were. William led us almost right to you. He was amazing,' he enthused.

'He did? He's so clever. Just like his dad,' she sighed, groggily. Suddenly, her face crumpled.

'I'm so sorry, Sherlock,' she sobbed.

'You are sorry?' he queried, 'What on earth for?'

'I should never have let her in. I was so stupid. How could I have been so gullible? After everything Mycroft had done to keep us safe….' she shook her head, with self-disdain. Sherlock took her left hand in his and placed his right hand on the crown of her head again, brushing away the sudden tears with his thumb.

'Don't blame yourself, Molly. The only person to blame for this is her. You were just being yourself and I wouldn't want you to be any other way,' he crooned.

'Let me tell the staff that you're awake,' he said and reached for the call bell to summon a nurse. 'Don't you go anywhere,' he reminded her, as her eyes began to lose focus and her eyelids to close again.

ooOoo

**A/N: I researched effects and treatments of hypothermia and dehydration. I hope I got it right. Apologies if I didn't.**


	14. Chapter 14

**Author's note: None of these wonderful characters belong to me but I love them so much I just have to write for them. Thanks to ACD, SM and MG for being geniuses. If I have borrowed their words, I can only say that 'imitation is the sincerest form of flattery'. I do this for fun, not for profit.**

**Chapter Fourteen**

The medical staff needed to carry out a full examination of Molly to assess her readiness to be disconnected from the equipment to which she had been attached for the previous two days and, also, to establish whether any serious nerve damage had been caused by the hypothermia. As this was likely to take some time, Sherlock took the opportunity to go to the hospital refectory and take on some much needed fuel. Now that the crisis appeared to be over, he felt extremely hungry. On the way there, he texted Mrs Hudson, John and Mycroft, to let them know that Molly was more or less conscious. As an afterthought, he also texted Greg Lestrade. He received texts back from everyone, expressing their relief but the one from Lestrade also said that he needed to talk to him. He said he would be there in a few minutes.

'Meet me in the refectory,' Sherlock texted back.

'Will do,' came the reply, and, true to his word, Lestrade arrived a few short minutes later.

'You haven't just come from Scotland Yard,' Sherlock commented, as Lestrade pulled out the chair opposite him and sat down, eying Sherlock's plate of food with a degree of envy.

'No. Well spotted, Sherlock,' Lestrade agreed. 'I've been chatting to the lovely Ms Jamieson, actually. She was brought to this hospital, too. It's the nearest specialist trauma hospital to Tilbury. She could have been in the next bed to Molly, if she had not been under police guard.'

'Not remotely funny, Lestrade,' Sherlock replied. 'What has she had to say for herself?'

'Not a lot, actually. But, fortunately, a few other people have been very informative.'

'Meaning?' Sherlock was curious.

'The charity which owns the containers came up trumps. Apparently, she contacted them through the W. I. website and arranged to come over and do some voluntary work for them. She told them it was some sort of alternative retreat. Instead of sitting in a nunnery for a month, taking a vow of silence or something, she wanted to collect used clothes from people's doorsteps. The Ford Transit belongs to them; she just drove it down from Liverpool as a favour. She changed the plates as and when it suited her purpose. She's been staying in a Catholic women's hostel in Billericay. They reported her missing when she didn't come home night before last.'

'Clever. Kept her well under the radar. I don't suppose the Homeless Network stretches that far. I should do something about that,' he mused.

'She's been driving that blue van all around Essex, collecting used clothing and bringing them back to the container park, setting up her cover. Once she gained access, she could source the container for Molly and William,' Lestrade continued.

'And how did she do that?' Sherlock asked.

'Apparently, all those containers in that particular section are awaiting repairs of some sort. Most of them are derelict, actually, which is why no one ever goes near there,' Lestrade explained.

'So why didn't any of the security people notice her snooping around? And how did she get William in and out? I mean, Molly was obviously in the back of the van when she was driven in there but William recognised the place, so he must have been in the cab. How come they didn't notice when she drove in with him but drove out without him and vice versa?' Sherlock pondered.

'Well, it would seem that the security gate is not always manned. Due to cut backs, sometimes there is only one guard on duty and he has to patrol round once every two hours so while he does that, the gate is left unattended. Everyone with a legitimate reason to enter the park is given an entry key, so they can let themselves in and out. The security camera records their number plate and the computer records the use of the key. We are guessing that Ms Jamieson just made a study of the schedule and made sure, when she needed to, that she came when there was no one on the gate.'

'So, something else I can blame on the recession, then – damn, those greedy bankers,' Sherlock cursed, in mock outrage, giving the table a theatrical thump with his fist.

'She wants to speak to you,' Lestrade informed him

'About?' he asked.

'Won't say. You don't have to see her. It's entirely up to you.'

'Well, why not,' Sherlock replied. There was something irresistible about the idea of confronting this woman who had tried to kill him, his son and his child's mother – this was very personal.

'Well, she's just down on the next floor. I can take you now, if you like. I don't think I'll be gaining access to Molly any time soon, and it's not that urgent to get her statement. It can wait until she's completely recovered.' Lestrade stated.

'OK,' Sherlock replied, 'but why don't you get something to eat, first. You are practically chewing my food for me. She won't be going anywhere, will she?'

Approximately an hour later and one floor down, Sherlock was shown into a room identical in design and lay out to the one in which he had spent the last two days, at Molly's bedside. The woman in this room looked a good deal healthier than her victim in the other, but only had a police guard for company. She was sitting up in the bed, wearing a hospital gown, with her injured arm in a sling. Without make up and having not washed or combed her hair for a couple of days, she looked a good deal less distinguished and the family resemblance between her and her late son was considerably more marked. Sherlock walked in, with his hands clasped behind his back and stood at the bottom of the bed, scanning the woman with a critical eye. She watched him, in silence, for a moment or two and then spoke,

'And what do you deduce from me, Mr Sherlock Holmes,' she asked, with disdain.

'Absolutely nothing worth my time or attention,' he replied, blandly. 'You wished to see me, I believe, so here I am. What do you want?'

'I want to know what you did with my boy, after you murdered him,' she squawked, venomously. Sherlock looked momentarily surprised and then threw back his head and laughed.

'You think it's funny, do you, killing a mother's only son and then depriving her of the opportunity to give him a decent burial?' she spat.

'Not I, Ms Jamieson. That is your proclivity. You had every intension of shooting my child, an innocent baby, in the back and leaving his mother to die alone in that shipping container, just to punish me, whom you imagine has slighted you,' he stated.

'Slighted? Is that what you call it when you take a man's life?' she was becoming quite agitated now. 'You and your sort, like that brother of yours, you think you can murder with impunity. When you wield your power, standing in the wings, pulling the strings of those on the stage, you think that the law doesn't apply to you.'

'Madam, I am not the one who has been breaking the law. Abduction, false imprisonment, attempted murder, physical abuse, possession of an illegal fire arm, driving a vehicle with false number plates, theft – these are all against the law.' He remained resolutely calm and unperturbed, which seemed to infuriate her still more.

'So, what? Are you claiming you killed my son in self-defence?' she sneered.

'Not at all,' he replied.

'Then how and why did you kill him?' she demanded.

'No, madam, you misunderstand. I did not kill him, not at all. He killed himself,' Sherlock stated.

'Liar!' she roared and made to leap from the bed towards him but the police officer sitting at the side of the room, sprang up and restrained her, telling her to calm down before she caused herself further damage. The pulse monitor, attached to her finger, was beeping rapidly as her heart rate accelerated. A nurse came into the room, alarmed by the shout she had heard. She took in the scene of Sherlock, standing at the foot of the bed, looking mildly amused, and the enraged patient, then she turned to the officer and said,

'If this man is upsetting the patient, I will have to ask him to leave.'

'No,' screamed the irate woman in the bed, 'he must tell me where my son is. I have to give him a decent Christian burial.'

'Your son had a very decent Christian burial, all paid for by my family. The only thing missing was his name, but that can be amended. I could take you to his grave right now. Unfortunately, his headstone has my name on it,' Sherlock explained. The woman was shocked into silence, so Sherlock went on.

'I never went looking for your son. In fact, I didn't even know he existed until he made himself known to me. He seemed to see me as some sort of rival, though goodness knows why as we were not remotely interested in the same things. Your son appeared hell bent on world domination whereas I just enjoyed solving puzzles. Unfortunately, some of the puzzles I solved seemed to be important to him so he decided he had to defeat me, get the better of me; annihilate me, in fact. He could have just walked away, taken his business elsewhere, set up shop in another town, so to speak, but he was kind of obsessed with me. He decided that the world was not big enough for both of us and he wanted me gone.' He paused and she continued to stare at him, with an expression half way between contempt and outrage. Sherlock continued,

'He went to an awful lot of trouble to set me up – got himself arrested for three daring crimes, all committed on the same day…'

'He was acquitted of those crimes,' she interjected, indignantly.

'Only because he threatened the jury members,' Sherlock retorted. 'He told me so himself. Every fairy story needs a good old fashioned villain, he said, and he was it. He kidnapped and almost killed two children – a bit of a family pastime, if you don't mind my saying – just to implicate me. And once he thought he had destroyed my reputation, he threatened to kill three of my closest friends, just to force me to kill myself. When it looked as though I wouldn't play ball, he stuck a gun in his mouth and shot himself, blew his brains out, all over the roof of St Bart's hospital – not a pretty sight, I have to say.' Sherlock was revelling in the graphic description of Moriarty's demise, enjoying the look of horror on the woman's face.

'You are a liar,' she hissed.

'You don't have to believe me. Have the body exhumed and a post-mortem carried out. It will confirm everything I've told you – the nature of the injury, the powder burns on his left hand – he was left handed wasn't he?' Sherlock looked enquiringly at the woman. She did not respond.

'So,' he concluded, 'now you know how your son died; and why; and where he is. You can have him dug up and taken to a final resting place of your choosing or you can leave him where he is and just get him a new head stone: your choice. Personally, I could not care less.' With that, he turned and walked out of the room and made his way back to Molly.

When Sherlock arrived again at Molly's room, he was rather put out to find that her mother and sister were by her bedside. He saw them, through the window in the door, just as he was about to enter the room. He stopped and considered walking away but, coming to a decision, he pushed open the door and walked in. Both women turned and stared at him, the sister warily and the mother with the pursed lips of the perennially disapproving. Sherlock switched on his most disarming smile and approached the older woman with his hand outstretched. Taken completely by surprise, she reached out her hand automatically and they shook.

'Mrs Hooper, I am delighted to make your acquaintance,' he gushed. 'Please forgive my rude behaviour earlier. It was quite inexcusable. And,' he continued, turning to the younger one, 'you must be Molly's sister,' grasping her hand and squeezing it, warmly, 'I can see that attractive woman run in the Hooper bloodline.' Even in her weakened state, Molly found it hard to stifle a smile at this incorrigible performance. Having completely bamboozled the two ladies, Sherlock swooped around to the far side of the bed and bent to place an affectionate kiss on Molly's cheek, then sat on the chair, reached for her hand and beamed at her. She fixed him with a warning glare then turned to her mother and said,

'Mum, this is Sherlock. He's William's father.' Mrs Hooper was too stunned to say anything, so just stared from him to Molly, with her mouth open.

'I was just saying to Mum that she could perhaps go and see William, while she's here. She doesn't get to see him very much,' Molly said, pointedly, to Sherlock.

'Oh, you must!' he insisted. 'Mycroft's driver will take you. I'll call Mrs Hudson and tell her to expect you, shall I?'

'Er, yes…thank you…that would be lovely…' Mrs Hooper stammered.

'Fine!' exclaimed the horrendously over-acting detective. 'Shall I do it now?'

'Er…OK, yes…thank you,' the woman stammered again. Sherlock pulled out his phone, speed dialled Mrs Hudson's number and advised her to expect two visitors within the hour and to provide tea and cake, if she would be so kind. Having completed his task, he rose, swept round to the other side of the bed and ushered the two ladies out, with smiles and further handshakes and helping them on with their coats. The ladies did not stand a chance. Having closed the door behind them, he turned, leaned on the door and heaved a sigh of relief.

'Sherlock, you are evil,' Molly chided him, even while she struggled not to smile. He took off his coat, laid it on the chair vacated by Molly's mother and walked round to sit back in his usual spot.

'I needed somewhere to put my coat,' he explained, with a straight face.

'Well, I was just going to ask my sister to help me to the bathroom so now you will have to do it,' she concluded. The expression on his face was utterly priceless. Enjoying the moment, Molly pressed the call button to summon a nurse.

ooOoo

**A/N: Special thanks to Jaufre for the heads up about the microscope. I really do appreciate it as I do try to be factually accurate and that was clearly a big error. Cheers! **


	15. Chapter 15

**Author's note: None of these wonderful characters belong to me but I love them so much I just have to write for them. Thanks to ACD, SM and MG for being geniuses. If I have borrowed their words, I can only say that 'imitation is the sincerest form of flattery'. I do this for fun, not for profit.**

**Chapter Fifteen**

Once it was decided that Molly no longer required the services of the ICU, Mycroft suggested she be moved to an exclusive private hospital in the centre of London, to receive recuperative care. Molly was happy with this arrangement, as it meant she was closer to William and it made it easier for Sherlock to bring him to visit her. She had long ago given up trying to persuade Mycroft not to go to great expense on her behalf, since cost seemed to be of no importance to him. Sherlock was happy with this arrangement, too, as it meant that Molly was no longer in close proximity to her attacker who, although she was under police guard, he suspected might be inclined to try something drastic, should the opportunity present itself. So it was arranged for Molly to transfer, by private ambulance, the following day. Now that she was clearly out of danger, he did not feel the need to spend every waking hour at her bedside, so Molly and Sherlock agreed that he stay at Molly's flat and take over William's care from Mrs Hudson, which enabled her to return home, for a well-earned rest for, although William was by and large a well-behaved, co-operative child, he was still a lively two year old and Mrs Hudson was a lady in her eighth decade. They both agreed that it would be best for William to get back into some sort of routine so Sherlock would take him to the crèche every day, leaving himself free to go home to Baker Street, where he would be able to work on some cold cases, sourced from the few unsolved crime web sites that had not yet blocked him, because of his success rate.

Despite the general feeling of weakness and the Acticoat7-dressed injuries on her wrists and ankles, it was felt that Molly was making a good recovery following her ordeal. However, on the first night in the private hospital, which she thought was more like a luxury spa hotel than any hospital she had ever been in, the degree of emotional trauma became evident. Molly awoke, screaming, waking half the other patients on her floor and bringing the night nurse racing into her room. She was so distressed that the nurse sent for the on-call doctor, who felt it best to sedate her. This incident was duly reported to Mycroft, when he rang for an up-date on the patient the next morning. He arrived at the hospital an hour later, to visit her. On entering her room, he thought she looked fragile and pale. He gave her his customary pecks, one on each cheek, and sat in the bedside chair.

'What happened last night, Molly?' he asked, with concern in his voice.

'It was just a nightmare but it felt so real,' she began. 'I was in my flat with William and I turned around and she was there, pointing that gun at me. Then she pulled the trigger and I woke up screaming.' Molly looked as though she were about to burst into tears. Mycroft took her hand and held it, comfortingly.

'Mycroft, I don't think I can ever go back there. It's my home and I love it and, what's more important, it's William's home, the only one he has ever known but the thought of walking back in there makes me feel as though I'm going to die.' Mycroft considered what she had said then replied,

'Molly, a house is made by builders but a home is made by love and care. We can find you another flat.'

'Yes, but then she will have won, won't she, that awful woman?' Molly blurted out, tears beginning to well in her eyes.

'Then we need to deal with this,' Mycroft stated. 'Leave it with me, Molly. Let me speak to someone.' Mycroft stayed a little longer, to make sure she had everything she needed and then left to travel the short distance to his Whitehall office. Climbing into the back seat of his car, he was already dialling on his mobile phone.

ooOoo

Sherlock was working on one of those website ancient mysteries when the doorbell to 221B rang.

'Get that, would you, John,' he called, completely engrossed in the experiment he was conducting. It was only when the bell rang a second time and he took a deep breath to shout up to John's room, that he suddenly remembered that John no longer lived there. He sat up straight, rather taken aback by his memory lapse. Working with John and Lestrade to try and find Molly and William had been so like old times. He had to admit, to himself at least, that part of him had actually enjoyed pitting his wits against Bernadette Jamieson, despite it being a deeply traumatic experience for all concerned. How he wished those days could return. The bell rang a third time and then his iPhone chirped the text alert. He opened the text.

'Are you going to answer the bloody door or not? I know you're in there.' It was from D.I. Greg Lestrade. Sherlock trotted down the stairs to the front door and let Lestrade in.

'About bloody time, too,' he complained and let Sherlock pass him in the hall to lead the way up to the flat. Once upstairs and with the kettle switched on, Sherlock turned to his friend and said,

'So what can I do for you?'

'Actually, it's what I can do for you, for once,' Lestrade announced. Sherlock was intrigued,

'Really? Well, Inspector, please put me out of my misery,' he replied, flippantly.

'We must be coming up for some kind of inspection or an audit, or something and there seems to be a bit of a backlog of unsolved crimes, which the management find a bit inconvenient…'

'Are you asking me to look at these cases?' Sherlock interrupted, slightly irritated by Lestrade's long-winded preamble.

'I have been requested by the Assistant Commissioner to invite you to consult on some of these cases, yes,' the D.I. confirmed.

'What kind of cases?' Sherlock asked, warily.

'All kinds,' replied Lestrade.

'Little old ladies' lost cats?' snorted Sherlock.

'Sherlock, do you want it or not?' Lestrade retorted, irritably.

'I don't want to do any boring stuff,' he replied.

'Look, this is a foot in the door, mate,' Lestrade explained, opening his hands, in a placatory gesture. 'It shows that their attitude towards you is softening. It's a start, isn't it?'

Sherlock was secretly rather pleased by this development but he was not about to let Lestrade know that. He assumed a thoughtful attitude as he made two mugs of tea and passed one to the inspector. Then, inviting Lestrade to be seated in John's chair, he sat in his favourite chair, opposite, and continued to feign deep thought. Lestrade suspected that this was a sham but he appreciated that his friend had his pride and would not wish to appear too eager, so he sipped his tea and waited patiently. At last, Sherlock spoke.

'Where would I be working?' he asked, warily.

'You would have to work at the Yard.'

'Why?'

'We can't allow police files out of the building. If the press were to get wind of it, they would have a field day. Imagine the headlines: 'Confidential police files found in Baker Street bin'. I'd be pounding the beat, before I could draw a breath.'

'Why would I put them in my bin?'

'Just go with me on this one, Sherlock. I cannot let you take files out of the Yard.'

'I could access them on my lap top.'

'Some of them are hard copy only.'

'What about the Black Museum?'

'What?'

'The Black Museum.'

'What about the Black Museum?'

'I asked you that.'

'Are you trying to piss me off or is that just your default position?'

'I could work in the Black Museum.'

'Ah…. Right….. That's an idea,' Lestrade mulled that thought over. 'That could work.' He thought some more then said,

'Let me get back to you on that.'

'Will these be cold cases?'

'No, actually, they are mostly live cases but no one is currently working on them. They are in limbo.'

'Would John be able to work with me?'

'I don't see why not, if he wants to, but he's working at St Mary's, isn't he?'

'Will I get paid?' He looked at Lestrade, speculatively.

'We've never paid you before.'

'I have responsibilities now, in case you hadn't noticed.'

'I'll check on that, OK?

'Fine,' replied Sherlock, with a satisfied nod.

ooOoo

Later, that afternoon, Mycroft arrived back at Molly's hospital room, accompanied by a lady in a smart black suit. He introduced them.

'Molly, this is Dr Eve Matthews. I believe she can help you deal with the issues you have with regard to your flat. She is the best in her field.' Molly looked at the lady, curious but also wary.

'I will leave you ladies to become acquainted,' he said, and took his leave. Dr Matthews sat in the chair next to Molly's bed.

'Mycroft says you are the best in your field. What field is that?' Molly asked.

'I'm a psychotherapist,' relied the doctor.

'OK. So how do we do this?' she asked.

'Well, to begin with, I'd like to help you to relax. You seem quite tense. After your recent experiences, I would be surprised if you were not tense. This is a normal reaction to an abnormal situation, so you are doing all the right things, so far.'

'Yes, well, that's good to know. I thought I was going mad,' Molly commented, ironically.

'Let's begin with you telling me about yourself.' The lady's voice was quite soothing, actually, and the questions she asked were not difficult to answer so Molly did find herself relaxing a little. After a few minutes of casual conversation, Dr Matthews told Molly she would like to teach her some relaxation techniques.

'Will that help me get back to my flat?' Molly asked.

'Indirectly, yes. The more you can control your stress levels, the easier it will be to confront your fears.'

'That sounds logical,' Molly agreed. 'Can I ask you something?'

'Certainly, although I may not be able to answer you.'

'How do you know Mycroft?'

'I do work for him, from time to time.'

'Psychological work?'

'That's quite a broad definition.'

'Do you carry out debriefings?'

The doctor smiled.

'Mycroft said you were intuitive. Yes, that is one of my functions.'

'Did you work on Sherlock's debrief?'

'That information is classified. But, perhaps, under the circumstances, I can tell you that I am familiar with that particular operation.'

'Well, that's good enough for me.'

'Really? In what way?'

'If you managed to get Sherlock to cooperate with you then you must be very good so I am willing to trust you.'

'Trust between patient and therapist is very important,' the doctor agreed.

'So, shall we get on with it, then?

'Yes, let's,' Eve Matthews replied, with a smile.

ooOoo

On his way to collect William from the crèche, Sherlock pondered on the phone conversation he had had with Mycroft, relating Molly's difficulties. His over-whelming sense of responsibility for her situation had returned with a vengeance. How casually he had involved her in his plot to subvert and destroy Moriarty's evil empire. All actions have consequences. He should have considered those possibilities at the planning stage but, in doing so, would he have become a real-life Hamlet, rendered impotent by indecision, doomed to a lifetime of over-analysis? Caring was definitely NOT an advantage. He considered the possibility of having to deliberate much more searchingly in the future, with the well-being of his son to protect. How complicated his life had suddenly become. Having collected William, he hailed a cab to take him and his son to visit Molly.

She had spent the afternoon practicing the relaxation techniques that Dr Matthews had taught her. If she had nightmares that night, she was to try to calm herself, using these. It would be quite a test of her prowess as a quick learner, she thought. But she put all these thoughts from her mind, when Sherlock arrived with William, and spent a pleasant hour cuddling and playing with her son. Sherlock seemed distracted and pensive during the visit. She guessed that Mycroft had been speaking to him but he would never bring it up in front of William. She was just glad that William had not known what was happening in the flat that night. He still thought of it as home and had no reason to feel at risk there. She was thankful for those small mercies. When it was time to leave, Sherlock bent to enable her to kiss his cheek. So, he did notice, after all, she thought.

That night, the nightmares were back but it was different this time. She was in the bathroom, spelling out the message in magnetic letters, then, as she went through into the sitting room, the woman was holding William, with the gun against his head. She woke up, hyperventilating, feeling as though she were having a heart attack. As she opened her eyes and sat up in the bed, realizing where she was, she tried to remember the technique she had learned that day. Concentrating on her breathing helped control the hyperventilation but the image left in her mind of the woman and the gun made it difficult to get back to sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, it was there. She eventually dropped off at round five a.m., as it was just beginning to get light, and dreamed she was in a black hole, feeling around in the dark, looking for a shoe.

Dr Matthews arrived at around ten a.m. and was very impressed with Molly's report that she had calmed herself after the nightmare. It boded well for the success of the process to come. Getting swiftly down to business, Eve asked Molly to close her eyes and take her on a virtual tour of her flat.

'Where would you like to begin?' the doctor asked.

'At the front door,' Molly replied.

'OK. We are standing at the front door,' confirmed the doctor and then waited for Molly to speak.

'I'm putting the key code into the key pad and opening the door. We're in the front hall and my flat door is on the left. We cross to the door and I open it with my key and we walk into the hall way.'

'How do you feel?'

'I feel a bit nervous but not too bad.'

'OK. Use your breathing technique to ease that and then, when you are ready, carry on.' Molly did as instructed and then continued the tour.

'We are going into the sitting room.' Molly felt her pulse rate rise and the heat drain from her skin. Her chest tightened and breathing became difficult.

'This was where….she had the gun….in her hand….William…..William….'

'Molly, use your breathing technique; use the technique. She's not there now. She was there but she is locked up now. She can't hurt you anymore.' Molly listened to the voice and, summoning all her will power and self-control, she applied the technique and gradually felt the panic subside until she heaved a great sigh and felt almost normal again. She opened her eyes and turned toward the therapist. Her skin was pale and she felt exhausted but she had controlled the panic attack.

'That was very good, Molly, excellent, in fact. I think that is enough for today, though.' Molly closed her eyes with relief. She did not want to do that again right now.

'You keep practicing the relaxation technique today and we'll try again tomorrow.' With the doctor gone, and lying on top of the bed covers, in her dressing gown, Molly drifted off to a dreamless sleep.

The next day, she anticipated her session with the doctor with mixed feelings. She had not had a nightmare over-night, which was definitely progress but she knew she needed to get further into the flat than last time. She was also aware that these virtual tours were just a rehearsal for the real thing. She would have to face the flat in reality soon. She was also a little concerned about Sherlock. He had brought William to see her as usual, last night, but had been withdrawn and pensive, like the day before. This filled her with trepidation, in a way she could not define.

Dr Matthews arrived at ten a.m. and the session began. In her mind's eye, Molly led the way into the flat again. As she came into her hallway, through the internal door, she felt her heart rate begin to rise and a cold sweat spread over her body. She visualised taking hold of the hand of the doctor, whom she imagined to be walking right beside her, and she took some steadying breaths. I have to do this, she thought.

'I'm in the sitting room,' she began. 'Here is where the woman sat watching William, with a gun by her side.' She paused and practiced her breathing. 'I'm walking into the kitchen. Here is where she pointed a gun at my chest.'

'You are doing very well, Molly. Remember, she's not there now. She can't hurt you,' the therapist reassured her. Molly felt the panic rising but did not allow it to over-come her.

'Now I'm going into William's bedroom. Here is where I packed his hold-all,' she saw herself, in her head, packing, as though for a normal sleep-over, in a blind panic. She paused and practised the technique until she felt the panic subside to a manageable level, then went on again.

'I am going into William's bathroom. Here I arranged the letters to tell Sherlock who I thought she was and that she had a gun'.

'You can stop, now, Molly,' the doctor advised her, in a soothing voice and she sat back against her pillows, safe, in the hospital room. She realised she had tears pouring down her face and she had not even known she was crying. Dr Matthews handed her a tissue and gave her a moment or two to compose herself.

'You are doing extremely well, Molly. I think you covered all the stress points that time.'

'I tried to. I have to do this, so I can go home and be with my son again. I just wish I didn't cry so much,' she replied.

'Crying is good. It's a release valve. And, trust me, Molly, after what you've been through, you really need to cry.'

'Did Sherlock cry?' The question was out before she even realised. The doctor considered whether or not to give an answer, then said,

'Sherlock did a lot of things and crying was one of them.'

After the therapist left this time, Molly took a long, hot shower and thought about washing that mad woman's presence out of her life. That's what she needed to do, to clean that woman out of her house. She would speak to Sherlock when he came today and ask him to get some professional cleaners in to do a complete deep clean, like they had at the hospital, after they had that Norovirus epidemic, last winter. She hoped this wasn't just another compulsive reaction. She did not want to become an obsessive cleaner. She concluded that this was unlikely.

After her shower, she lay on top of the bed and wondered about how much Sherlock's debrief experience differed from her own. She called it 'debriefing' as it made her feel more proactive and less like a victim. That was the worst part, she thought, the feeling of helplessness, of being completely in the power of someone else. She needed to get her self-determination back.

ooOoo

It being Saturday, Sherlock and William had spent the day at Regents Park Zoo, mostly in the B.U.G.S. exhibit, looking primarily at the invertebrates, which were William's particular favourites. They had seen cave crickets, cockroaches, leaf cutter ants and a swarm of locusts, as well as giant Orb spiders, Honey bees in a hive, mole rats, golden frogs and tank full of moon jellyfish. William had been absolutely fascinated by all the animals and had spent nearly half an hour watching the ants go about their business and an equal amount of time enthralled by the hypnotic pulsing of the moon jelly fish. When it was time to come away, he was only persuaded to leave willingly by the reminder that he was going to see Mummy. They took the 274 bus, William's preferred mode of transport, from just outside the zoo to York Street and then walked from there. Riding the bus, they sat upstairs, at the front, with William pointing at all the land marks that caught his eye, asking,

'What dat?' and then listening intently to the explanations. Carried by his father, on the short walk from the bus stop, and rocked by the movement of Sherlock's long-striding gait, William was lulled into sleep, head resting on his parent's shoulder. On arrival in Molly's room, Sherlock found her sitting in the arm chair, looking much better than she had on either of his two previous visits. He assumed that the sessions with his own nemesis, Eve Matthews, were going well. This thought brought back some uncomfortable memories, so he quashed it. William roused as Sherlock passed him to Molly, but only long enough to say, 'Mummy', and then he was asleep again.

'You've worn him out,' she remarked.

'The zoo wore him out. He really loves creepy-crawlies. I think he would stay all night if they would let him.'

She was pleased that Sherlock was being more communicative today. They talked generally about her recuperation and she asked him about getting the flat deep cleaned. He said he would see to it first thing Monday morning. Then there was a lull in the conversation. In thoughtful repose, Sherlock looked troubled.

'Is everything OK with you?' Molly asked. He looked instantly guilty and she wished she had not asked but he recovered quickly and shrugged.

'I just have a lot on my mind at the moment. Lestrade says he might have some work for me. I'm just waiting to see what he comes up with.' Molly knew this was an excuse. The prospect of work would make him relaxed and happy, not withdrawn and pensive. Molly did not pursue it. If he didn't want to talk about it, that was his prerogative, but it did worry her that he felt the need to lie. It was a foreign concept to him. He was known for his brutal honesty. She had to turn off this train of thought because it was too distressing.

'Greg hasn't sent anyone to take my statement yet,' she clutched at a diversion.

'He said it could wait until you are fully recovered,' Sherlock related the D.I.'s words.

'No, I'd rather do it now,' she stated. 'I want to get it all over and done with before I leave here.'

'You will have to give evidence at her trial,' he reminded her.

'Yes, but that will be months away. I want to get this part sorted as soon as possible,' Molly insisted. Sherlock promised to relay this request to Lestrade. The rest of the visit passed with casual conversation and then Sherlock took the still-sleeping William home for supper, bath and bed.

ooOoo

Sunday lunchtime, Sherlock and William met John and Mary for a pub lunch on the river. It was a family-friendly place with a nice beer garden which had a couple of swings and a climbing frame to entertain the children. They ordered their meals and, while they waited for them to be prepared, Mary took William to play on the climbing frame, which was designed like a fort, with ladders, a rope bridge and a slide. Sherlock sat watching them, with frown lines round his eyes. John sat watching him and then, eventually said,

'What's the problem, Sherlock?' Sherlock switched his attention to John and thought for a moment before speaking.

'How do you do it, John?

'Do what?' John replied, looking puzzled.

'Domesticity.'

John raised his eyebrows.

'You make it look so easy,' Sherlock muttered, running his hand through his hair, which was almost as long now as it had been before he went away.

'That's because, for me, it is. I knew as soon as I met Mary that she was the right one for me. We just clicked.'

'Oh, right,' Sherlock nodded, slightly mockingly, 'the magic click. Love at first sight, was it?'

'No, not love. Lust, definitely, but not love. That came later. But we just got on well, laughed at the same things, liked the same music – mostly - you know.'

'No, I don't know. I really don't,' he replied. After a short pause, during which John looked at his friend with genuine sympathy and regret, Sherlock seemed to give a mental shake and then said,

'Lestrade's been in touch. He wants us to work for him. Or rather, he wants me to work for him and I want you to work with me.' John looked interested.

We're still sorting out the details but are you up for it?'

'Fuck, yes!' John replied, with a small whoop of sheer delight, then, reining in his enthusiasm for a moment, said, 'Well, it would have to fit in round my shifts at the hospital, of course, but, my God, am I up for it!' Sherlock smiled, broadly – a rare occurrence but one that lit up his whole face and made his eyes sparkle.

'God, I've missed it,' he said, 'I can't begin to say how much!'

ooOoo

Molly's next session with Eve was a land mark moment. She had spent the weekend repeating the virtual tour of her flat until she could get round without any panic attacks at all. On the Monday morning, when the doctor arrived, Molly could not wait to get started. She took the doctor round her flat and stopped at every stress point, lingering and describing in detail the woman's appearance and her behaviour, even to the point where they left the flat and exited the building. Molly opened her eyes and looked at the doctor with a triumphant expression.

'I think I'm ready to do it for real,' she announced.

'Yes, I would have to agree with you there. We should arrange it as soon as possible, perhaps even tomorrow. But, Molly, I must warn you, without wanting to be a damp squib, it will be much harder doing it for real. You have embraced this stage of the process brilliantly. Just don't expect the next stage to be a formality. It will be tough.'

Molly nodded. She understood what the doctor was saying.

'Don't worry, I won't get too cocky. I know what I'm in for.'

That afternoon, Sgt Donovan was despatched to take Molly's statement. A few days earlier, this would have been a traumatic experience for Molly but today it felt like catharsis. It was part of the process of washing the Jamieson woman out of hers and William's life.

That night, the nightmares returned but she was able to calm herself and get back to sleep relatively quickly and, next morning, she was dressed and waiting when Dr Matthews arrived to take her to the flat. They sat outside, in the car, for several minutes, whilst Eve Matthews took Molly through her relaxation techniques, before getting out and approaching the front door.

'OK, Molly, I'm right here with you. Just walk me through it, like you did in your head,' the doctor prompted her, 'and remember, you can stop any time or take a break whenever you need to.' Molly nodded, took a deep breath and keyed in the code to enter the house.

'This is my home,' she told herself, defiantly. 'I can't let her win this battle.'

This was the first time she had been back there since being kidnapped at gun point but Mrs Hudson had been here for four days and nights, with William, and then Sherlock and William had been here for almost a week so she expected it to seem different. She took a few more steps, to the door to the sitting room. Looking around, she could see signs of other people's habitation. They were mostly small and subtle, but this was her home and she knew it intimately. Even small changes shouted out to her.

'Do you want to sit down, Molly?' asked the doctor, concerned at the loss of colour in her cheeks.

'No. I need to do this. I need to see the whole place, please,' she replied.

'You can take breaks, remember' Eve reminded her but Molly pressed on.

As she walked through the flat, holding tight to the doctor's hand, everything she looked at brought back powerful memories of that awful evening that had begun so innocently. She employed the breathing techniques, just as she had rehearsed in the virtual tours and began to move through the flat. This was where she sat, looking at William, with the gun held at her side; this was where she stood, pointing the gun at my heart; this was where I packed William's bag, while she was in the sitting room, with my son and a gun; this is where I wrote the clue for Sherlock; this is where she took William's hand and made me walk first, out of the flat.

'Molly, it's Ok. You are safe. She can't hurt you.' Molly heard Eve's voice and she opened her eyes. She was sitting on the arm chair, in her sitting room, shaking uncontrollably, with the all too familiar sensation of tears, pouring down her cheeks, holding tight to the doctor's hand.

'Would you like a glass of water?' Eve asked. Molly nodded, gratefully. When she returned, with the water, Molly was much calmer. Eve sat on the sofa and waited for her to sip the water, then spoke,

'That was quite amazing, Molly. You have done so incredibly well. I really did not expect you to do the whole thing like that, without a break. You were on a mission,' she smiled, full of admiration.

'I couldn't let her win. This is my son's home and she is not going to chase us out of here. I didn't think I would ever set foot in here again, but here I am. And she is locked up, where she belongs. I hope she rots in Hell, her and her psycho son. Fuck them!'

Eve could not help bursting out laughing and then Molly was laughing, too, despite the tears.

'My mother would kill me if she heard me say that word!' she gasped, putting her hand up to her mouth, in embarrassment. 'I NEVER say that word!'

'Well, in my book, swearing is like crying. It's a safety valve. Save it up and use it when it really counts,' the doctor advised. 'How about a cup of tea?'

Molly and Eve spent another hour, in the flat, talking about the abduction and Eve was able to explain how the perpetrator had used psychological tricks to subvert Molly's natural instincts of suspicion of strangers.

'She was very clever, Molly. Any normal person would have been taken in by her. Don't think yourself stupid or gullible. She knew what she was doing.'

'She may have thought she knew what she was doing but she had no idea what she was going up against when she picked on Sherlock,' Molly declared. 'How soon can I move back in?'

'As soon as the hospital discharges you but I would recommend you have someone with you for a day or two, someone to help out around the home, until you feel completely recovered.'

ooOoo

Mycroft wanted to hire a private nurse for Molly but Mrs Hudson insisted on moving in as a temporary home help, which was Molly's preferred option, so Mycroft capitulated. Two days after Molly's visit home, her consultant advised that she was well enough to be discharged. A car was dispatched to collect Mrs Hudson and her suitcase then pick up Molly and transport them both to the flat. Having been in a hospital environment for almost two weeks, it felt good to be out in the fresh air and to be walking around, even just from the car to the front door. The driver brought in the luggage and took his leave. Sherlock had taken William to the crèche, so Molly had some time in the flat before her son came home. Sherlock had done as she asked and had the place 'valeted', the day before, so it was clean and fresh-smelling, neat and tidy. Sherlock may have been a brilliant detective but his housekeeping skills did leave something to be desired, she mused, smiling to herself. Mrs Hudson unpacked her things in the guest room. Sherlock had, considerately, packed his things into his valise and stripped the bed, that morning, so she only had to remake the bed and then went to the kitchen and put the kettle on.

Molly was lying on the sofa, with her feet up, when she heard Sherlock's key in the door. She stood up and ran into the hall, just as William come in. She stood smiling at him whilst he registered her presence, processed the information and then rushed at her, shouting 'Mummy!' She picked him up and hugged him to her, so happy to have him back in her arms, here in their own home. She carried him into the sitting room and, settling on the sofa, gave him the TV remote to choose which programme to watch. Needless to say, he chose a nature show.

Mrs Hudson busied herself in the kitchen, preparing supper and Sherlock sat at the kitchen table, looking thoughtful so she pushed a colander of raw vegetables at him and said,

'Here, make yourself useful and peel and chop those. You do know how to peel and chop, don't you?'

'As a matter of fact, I do,' he replied, indignantly, taking up the vegetable knife and selecting a chopping board. 'We had a very good cook and she taught both me and Mycroft to cook before we went to Cambridge. We'd both been away to school so she knew we had never had to cook a meal in our lives and she didn't want us starving to death or living on takeaways. She taught us to make 'Winter Comfort Food', as she called it – beef stew, shepherds' pie, spaghetti bolognaise, chicken chasseurs – you'd be surprised,' he asserted.

'I'm constantly surprised by you, dear,' she said and reached out to ruffle his hair.

After supper, Sherlock took William off for his bath, brought him in to say 'good night', and then put him to bed, whilst Mrs Hudson watched TV and Molly dozed on the sofa. When he came back into the room, Mrs Hudson excused herself, saying she was going off to her room to read a book and have an early night, as it had been a busy day. Sherlock asked her to put his bag in the hall way and he would collect it shortly, when he left to go home.

When Molly awoke, an hour or so later, Sherlock was sitting in the arm chair, watching her.

'We have to stop meeting like this,' he said, with a sardonic smile. Molly smiled back and rubbed her eyes.

'Did I miss something?' she asked. 'Where is everyone?'

'Mrs Hudson went to bed. I think we've worn her out,' he smiled. 'Can I get you anything?'

'A cup of tea would be nice,' she replied, yawning and stretching. He got up and went to the kitchen. Whilst waiting for the tea to arrive, Molly took herself off to her en suite bathroom. Looking into the mirror above the basin, she groaned at the state of her face. Oh, god, she thought, I look absolutely awful. She wondered how these damsels in distress in films always looked so glamorous, even on their death beds. Of course, she knew the answer – a makeup department and a soft filter on the camera lens. Opening her toiletries bag, she set about trying to repair some of the damage. She then brushed through her hair and returned to the sitting room.

Sherlock was sitting on the sofa, pouring the tea, so she sat in the arm chair and accepted a cup and saucer from him. They both sat, sipping their tea and thinking their own thoughts, Molly trying to think of a way to open the conversation about what was really bothering him and why he had lied about it. In the end, having come up with nothing better, she decided the blunt approach would have to do.

'Sherlock, why did you lie to me the other day? He looked at her as though she had just given him an electric shock.

'And, please, don't bother trying to deny it because we both know you are a terrible liar.' He was trapped, then. She could see by the rapid eye movements that he was trying to think of a way out but nothing was coming to mind. In the end, he sighed and sort of sank into himself, in a gesture of defeat. He reached forward and put his cup and saucer on the coffee table, then put his elbow on the arm of the sofa and rested his forehead on the middle finger and thumb of his left hand. Taking a deep breath, he began,

'Molly, what do you want from me?' he asked, with pain in his voice.

'I told you at the airport, Sherlock. I make no demands and I have no expectations but I would like you to be part of William's life,' she answered, as the old fingers of dread began to squeeze her heart.

'The last time I was here, we talked about why you put up with me before, when I was treating you so badly. And you said it was because you loved me. And you said that you still loved me but that you knew I couldn't love you back.' He looked at her for confirmation.

'Yes, that was about it,' she answered.

'You said you loved me for who I was, so why would you want me to be any different; that it was irrational to expect me to change.' Another pause.

'Yes, that is what I said.' She waited for him to find the words he was looking for.

'But what if I wanted to change?' he looked at her again but, this time, not for confirmation but for assistance. He was clearly finding it very difficult to put his thoughts and feelings into words.

'What if I wanted more out of our relationship than just sharing William?'

'What did you have in mind?' she asked, slightly out-flanked by this sudden and surprising declaration.

'Well, that's just it, I don't know. This is virgin territory for me. I watch other people together, like John and Mary, and it all seems so simple but, for me, it is not simple. I have never been 'in a relationship', ever.' He looked at her, and shrugged his shoulders. 'I've had sex, of course, and not just with you, although maybe I shouldn't be telling you that – or maybe I should, I just don't know. Oh, for God's sake, why does it have to be so complicated?' He punched the arm of the sofa with his fist, in sheer anguish She got up and sat next to him on the sofa, took his hand and plaited her fingers into his. He looked at her hand, holding his, but did not pull away.

'It does not have to be complicated. It doesn't have to be anything you don't want it to be. We are already friends, good friends, who trust each other. We don't have to do anything that's so very different. We could maybe start with 'friends with privileges'?' She looked to him for a reaction.

'Is that what I think it is?' he asked, cautiously.

'Yes, I expect so.'

'Because there is no way we could live together. I'm sorry but I do need my own space, especially if I'm working. With all my experiments, it would be too dangerous for William, being around all that.'

'No, I think you're right. I like my own space, too, and William is fine with us living in separate houses. He doesn't know any different.' There was a longer pause, whilst the full implications of what 'friends with privileges' might entail were processed.

'So, should we give it a try?' she asked. After an even longer pause, he gave a small nod.

'So would you like to stay tonight?' she asked and then added, 'And I don't mean bunking in with Mrs Hudson. I mean to say, I know you are close but that would be weird.' He looked at her and, at last, smiled.

'OK,' he nodded. She smiled back at him.

'Ok,' she said, softly. 'Let's go to bed.'

ooOoo

**A special thanks to everyone who has 'followed' or 'favourited' my story and to everyone who has taken the trouble to review it, which has been so helpful and encouraging, particularly to the guest reviewers Amelia, Jaufre and GoldenVine, who I cannot reply to in person.**

**Oh - and sorry Jack!**


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